


The Kindness of Wolves

by WinterRose527



Series: The Warmth of Winter [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 48,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRose527/pseuds/WinterRose527
Summary: Major canon divergence, all will be revealed in time. I've changed the ages a bit, mainly of Shireen and Myrcella. I know that they are close in age in the books, but it worked better for the storyline.





	1. Prologue

“Shall I tell you what they say of your brother?” she asks the sobbing girl in her arms, “They call him the young wolf. They say he rides into battle on the back of a giant direwolf. They say he can turn into a wolf when he wants to. They say he can’t be killed.”

“A-anyone can be killed,” Sansa sobbed, the cries racking her broken body. 

“Do you know what they say of my brother? They say he is craven and mad. That he is no true Baratheon and no true king. Now, who sounds like the victor in the end?”

“Joffrey – the evil ones always survive,” Sansa cries and as Myrcella thinks of her mother and her grandfather and the Hound and the Mountain and Littlefinger and most of all her brother, she can’t disagree. 

All she can do is hold her friend and stroke her hair, so she does. Even as her own blood runs down her cheek.


	2. Chapter 1

She wasn’t with her when the army came. She was in her room with her little cousin Shireen, and when she went to leave to find her friend, her mother’s guards stopped her. She drew a dagger then, and if they had any fear they did not show it as they shoved her roughly back into the room, locking her in. 

She hurled her body against it. She knew that the moment the army invaded, Sansa would draw her last breath. Foolish wolf, she thought, don’t you know your bravery will be your sister’s end just like it was your father’s?

It had to be hours later when she heard it. She was sitting in the window seat, Shireen’s little arms wrapped around her, and she sobbed. She didn’t cry for her family but for her friend, the girl she called sister when they lay back to back in the dark, guarding one another from the demons that roamed the castle and called themselves knights. The crying stopped when she heard the death cries of the guards and her door being repeatedly kicked. 

She rose, drawing Shireen, a girl of only nine behind her, as she drew the blade again, holding it in front of her like she had been taught all those years ago. The men who came in now looked half-animal, and Shireen clutched at her skirts while Myrcella stood rigidly in front of her. 

“Drop your blade, you Lannister bitch,” one of the men growled at her. In another time she might have told him she was a Baratheon, but it couldn’t matter less now. The Baratheon’s were all gone and the name of the once-king no longer held sway after all of the carnage that had swept through these Seven Kingdoms. Now, he was honor bound as they all were, to kill every member of the royal family they could get their hands on. 

“Is this how the North was won? By making wars on little girls?” she asks, and is surprised to hear the strength in her voice. 

“No princess,” the man in front says to her, “You will not die today.” 

“You – you mean to torture us?” Shireen wails behind her, knowing what that phrase meant in this Red Keep they’d called home. 

It is the startled expression on the leader’s face that tells her who he is. His face is covered in blood and soot, his features older than the boy she knew, but now that she sees it, she doesn’t understand how she hadn’t before. 

“To hear the people tell it, Jon Snow, you’re the best swordsman ever to have lived,” she says, “But there is a reason the rabbit is faster than the wolf, the wolf chases his dinner, the rabbit runs for his life. You will not take us so easily, I assure you.”

“You think to challenge me, highness?” he asks, and if she weren’t in the middle of a bloodbath she might have thought he was smiling at her.

“I am not a fool, I do not pretend to think that I can beat you or the ten men you have amassed to take on two girls, but know this, while I live you will not have her. She is a princess of the blood, she is a girl of nine, and I will run every man through who tries to take her.”

“Sansa was right about you,” he says, shaking his head. 

“S-Sansa? You can’t mean? She’s alive?” Myrcella asks and tears threaten to fall from her eyes.

“Of course she’s alive, she’s the reason we’re here.” 

“B-but I thought… how? Thanks be to the gods.”

“She’s ordered that you and Princess Shireen brought to her at once, unharmed. So you see, princess, we are not your captors, but rather your royal escort. If you’ll come with me?” he asks, and she can’t tell who is more surprised when he offers her his arm, his men or her. 

Despite the turn of events, she was raised a princess, and she will not let them see her cower now. She draws herself up to her full height and takes Shireen by the hand as she sheaths the blade. She places her hand lightly on Jon’s arm.

“Apologies for the blood, princess,” he says to her as he escorts her through the familiar halls. 

She isn’t sure if he is referring to the blood spattered on the walls, spilling from the dead that still lie where they fell, or that on his sleeve, but her answer is the same, “I am a princess of the Iron Throne, it will take a good deal more than blood to frighten me.”

***

Robb didn’t care that he was a king now, that he was supposed to be stoic, that he was supposed to be like ice. When he saw his beautiful sister Sansa, her eyes still showing the shadow of the last bruise, he fell to his knees in front of her, begging her forgiveness.

“You…you came for me.” 

“Of course I came for you,” he says, holding her hands to his cheeks.

“And you killed them all?” she asks him, her voice shaking.

“And I killed them all,” he assures her, his blade was still wet with Joffrey’s blood. 

She falls to her knees then with him and the sobs rack her body. He holds her to him, wanting to make a cocoon for her in his arms, where she can feel safe and loved, where no one can hurt her. 

She straightens suddenly and says, “Myrcella?” and he is surprised by the panic in her voice. 

“What of her?” he asks, thinking of the sweet little blonde princess who had blushed whenever he looked at her.

“Robb! She’s, she’s here, quick we have to get her, we have to get her before –“

“Before what?” he asks her, wondering what the princess could have done to frighten his sister so.

“Before they kill her! Robb you have no idea – she’s good, she’s – she saved me – you can’t let them kill her!” she says and she is on her feet now.

He rises with her and takes her face in his hands, “No one is going to kill her. We’d never allow it, she’s done nothing wrong.”

“Since when has that ever mattered?” Sansa asks, her tone hollow. It is this that brings the tears to his eyes. Which of the seven hells had his sister been living in, that she would think that her own brother would kill a girl, a princess he had known as a child, for a crime no greater than being born?

***

He was seated on the Iron Throne as he waited for the princess to be brought in. The blasted thing was uncomfortable, and he knew it was intentional. Being king was not meant to be easy, it was not meant to be a featherbed, it was supposed to be hard, and torturous, and only the worthy should seek it. Robb did not count himself in their number. Why would any man want to be king?

All he wanted was his family and his home. Somewhere along the way, after he’d won more battles, men had started kneeling to him, and his family and responsibilities had grown. The losses were great though, his father, executed not a mile from where he sat now, his mother, butchered half a league from her ancestral home, his sister Arya, lost and presumed dead as well. 

It was Jon who had been sent to fetch the princess, only Jon could be trusted not to hurt her. To too many of his men, her blonde hair would be enough to prove her guilt, but not to his good and loyal brother. The door opened now and Jon, trailed by his men, came in with Myrcella with one hand placed on his arm, the other holding a little hand. 

If the circumstances had been different, Robb might have laughed to see Jon, his dark Northern features covered in soot and blood, walking so formally next to Myrcella, the light Southern princess. 

If she was surprised to see him seated on the throne of her father and her brother, she did not show it. She released her hold on Jon’s arm and stepped forward, bringing the little hand with her. Only then did Robb see that it belonged to a little girl, around his brother Rickon’s age, who held tightly to Myrcella as though afraid she might be left behind. 

The princess bent into a graceful curtsey, her head tilted downwards, bringing the younger girl with her, and they stayed there like a tableau until Robb shifted uncomfortably. Jon looked at him, gesturing to them and only then did Robb realize what he had to do.

“Rise, princess, and step forward,” he said, adopting his kingly voice that still felt false on his lips. 

She rises as though it is nothing to her, as though she could have stayed down there for hours, as though she had expected to. She walks forward a few paces and only then does he truly see her. 

She had been a delightful child, her cheeks had been perpetually flushed from the cold at Winterfell, and the snow used to dance in her blonde ringlets. He remembered calling her a snow angel once when he happened upon her in the glass gardens and how, even at sixteen, he had known that the flush that rose in her cheeks was from his words rather than the cold. 

Now though, she was a woman a man would start a war for. She had the kind of face that artist’s loved to draw, but the kind of beauty that no pen could ever capture. Her lips were like rose buds, her pale green eyes nearly otherworldly, and her blonde hair, which used to fall freely about her shoulders, was now styled loosely, revealing an elegant neck.  
“I trust you have not been harmed, princess?” he asks her, his eyes leaving her face to scan her lithe body for any traces of misuse. 

“No, your grace, I have been treated kindly,” she says, her eyes on the floor. 

“And may I request the honor of being introduced to your charming companion?” he asks, his voice softening so that he will not frighten the little girl at her side. 

She was a little cherub of a thing, and he could have fooled himself into thinking she was an angel if it were not for the scars that marred one side of her face. Shireen Baratheon. Tales of the cruel fate that had befallen her had reached his home as a boy. 

“Your grace, this is my cousin, Princess Shireen of Dragonstone,” Myrcella said and he noticed how the little girl held onto her skirt with the hand that wasn’t already holding her.

He got off the throne then, crossing to them, and he knelt low so that he might be at eye level with the little girl. 

“Princess Shireen, I am Robb Stark, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, offering his hand to her. 

The little girl looks up at Myrcella who smiles reassuringly down at her, and she offers him her hand. He raises it briefly to his lips, and there is no scar that could hide the beauty of her smile now. 

“What do you like to do, Princess Shireen?” he asks her.

“I like to read, your grace,” she says, and her voice is just as sweet and polished as her cousin’s. The voice of royalty that no crown or throne could teach if you were not born to it. 

“Well, princess, we have a wonderful library at Winterfell, and I have a little brother about your age. Perhaps you’d like to see them both?”

“Is there really snow where you live?” she asks, and her voice is a little less polished now. 

“There is indeed,” he says with a smile. It was a pleasure to speak with an innocent child after spending so many years with battle hardened men. 

“And direwolves?”

“Direwolves too, mine is named Grey Wind. Would you like to meet him?”

“Is he very big?”

“Yes”

“Is he fierce?”

“When he needs to be”

“But you told me he was nice!” Shireen says accusingly at Myrcella.

“He was sweetling, but it’s been a great many years since I’ve seen him. We’ve all changed, even the wolves.”

“He would not be fierce to you, princess. Unless you mean me harm, do you mean me harm, princess?” he asks with a smile so that she knows he is only jesting.

“No, we don’t mean you harm, your grace,” she says earnestly, then as if gaining the courage, she leans in to whisper in his ear, “We’re the good ones.” 

He can’t help but chuckle at that and he rises. His eyes are on Myrcella when he says, “So I see,” and just like when she was a girl he sees the blush rise on her cheeks. 

***

She hadn’t expected kindness from the Northern King. Once she had been told that Sansa was alive, she knew they wouldn’t be harmed. His honor as a Stark would preclude them from humiliation as well. But kindness? 

She watched him with her cousin Shireen, the shy princess, who only liked her and Sansa and Tommen, before he’d died anyway, and her Onion Knight who had been sent on a mission west. She watched as he knelt to the ground before her, a vulnerable position, especially for a king, as he softened his voice for her and coaxed her out of herself. She tried to look at him like her grandfather might have, scanning for trickery, but she found none. Instead, she saw the way his features changed back to the boy she remembered when Shireen had whispered in his ear. 

She hadn’t been prepared for his gaze to come back to her so quickly, and she was surprised that after all these years, after all the things he had seen and done, his bright blue eyes still looked gentle. He said something to her that she couldn’t even hear and knew there was a blush rising on her cheeks at his attention. 

She is about to say something, prim and ladylike, when there is a commotion from the back of the throne room. Myrcella turns as all at once, the soldiers kneel, and then she sees Sansa, freshly bathed, wearing her hair defiantly in the Northern style, walking through the men. 

For a moment, Myrcella forgets that she is a princess, and she runs to her friend, her sister. Sansa, now a princess to, forgets as well and meets her halfway, their slender limbs wrapping around each other. It is only then that Myrcella cries. She hadn’t cried when she thought she would be killed, nor when she’d found out that her elder brother, her mother, and her grandfather had been, it is only the relief at seeing her friend safe that stirs her heart. 

“You were right, Ella, you were right,” Sansa says at they hold each other, then she whispers in her ear, “And I swear, by the old gods and the new, that I will protect you now, as you always protected me.” 

She holds her friend tighter now, but as she thinks of Jon’s shocked expression when Shireen asked if they would be tortured, to the kind way Robb asked if she might like to see the North, Myrcella knows that a new age is upon them. One in which princesses do not have to protect one another from kings.

***

They are with his small council now, Sansa and Jon are on his left and right, and the Princess Myrcella stands before them, surrounded by his Northern Lords. Princess Shireen had been sent to bed, and he had allowed Sansa to choose her guards, knowing she had chosen right when she had selected Jon’s friends Grenn and Sam. The two were former men of the Night’s Watch, the first strong and stupid, the second wise and kind. He had heard Sam asking her about her favorite books as they escorted the sweet princess to her chambers. 

She is undaunted, this Southern princess, even now as the very Lords who rose against her family argue about her fate.

“She should be exiled, your grace, there is no room in these Seven Kingdoms for bastards of incest,” one says. 

“So she can raise a foreign army against us? No, your grace, better to marry her off now, to a man who will teach her place and keep her loyal,” Lord Cerwyn returns. 

“And I suppose you’d offer yourself up as sacrifice?” Jon asks the old man, who was looking at Myrcella lasciviously. 

“What is the point, your grace? She is a Lannister, through and through, take her head now and you’ll save yourself pain down the line,” Lord Karstark says gruffly, and even when her death is proposed, Myrcella does not cower. 

“What would the bastard Joffrey do in your place, your grace? What did he do to your sister when he was in your position?” Lord Umber asks. 

“My brother is not Joffrey. That is the point. That is why you all followed him here, and the next man who threatens Princess Myrcella’s life will lose his own, is that clear?” his sister Sansa asks and he is surprised by the steel in her voice. She is no longer the porcelain girl who dreamed of love and honor. 

“Princess Myrcella, you have no surviving family, and you are unmarried, may I ask, how old are you?” Robb asks, though he knows perfectly well.

“I am eighteen, your grace,” she says politely. 

“A girl of eightteen can not be left on her own in the world. You and your cousin will come North, and you will be wards of my family until such time as we find suitable matches for you both.”

“Woman’s witchcraft,” Lord Umber says and spits, as if banishing demons. 

Myrcella’s eyes flick to the large Northern Lord, over twice her size and her age, and she levels him with a gaze, “I wonder how often men’s weakness has been blamed on women’s witchcraft.”

If he had not been wounded by her implication, he might have smiled at the sentiment. She certainly was a clever girl. 

“Do you accuse me of weakness, princess?” he asks, his king voice returning.

He expects her to be flustered, but she gracefully drops to a curtsey before him, “Of course not, your grace. It was only an observation. You are a wise and gracious king, and I thank you for your generosity.”

She really was a marvel. In the past minute she had embodied three different personalities and he found himself desperate to know which was the real one. He looked at his Lords as she curtseyed before him, and he knew that they were marveling too. Whatever her parentage, Myrcella Baratheon was a true princess, and she had an otherworldly grace about her that captivated them, even as they wondered if she might bring about their doom.


	3. Chapter 2

She knew herself to have a traitor’s heart when she let out a sigh of relief as they left the Red Keep. She was on horseback, Shireen holding on tightly behind, and they followed just behind the royal family. The people came out in droves, and she feared that there may be another riot. But this was a different time, a different family, and the people cheered the Stark name and paid her and her cousin no mind. 

She could tell that they were not used to the adoration of Southern crowds, as they shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. It was Sansa that Robb and Jon turned to, and Myrcella fought the urge to laugh as the now legendary soldiers mimicked her graceful wave, the way she bowed her head ever so slightly to the people. She was a princess that the people would love on sight, now that they were allowed to. 

Once they were outside the city, the procession broke up, a bit less formal, and Myrcella knew that this was how the Northerners preferred it. They did not care for rank, they only wanted to go home. It was then that Sansa fell back to join them.

“Hello sweetling,” Sansa said to Shireen, holding out her hand so the little girl could grasp it. 

“Are you really a princess now, like us?” Shireen asks her excitedly. 

“I am, but you are the prettiest princess of all and I have a favor to ask you,” Sansa says kindly, as though she is about to share a great secret.

“What is it?” Shireen asks excitedly, pleased to be taken into the older girl’s confidence.

“When we are together, just we three, can we not be princesses? Can we just be sisters as we always have been?” Sansa asks and Myrcella turns to her and can see the true plea in her tone.

“Yes,” Myrcella and Shireen say together, with Myrcella finishing, “To the world you are the beautiful Stark princess, the lady of the North, but you will always be our Sansa.”

“And you will always be my Ella, even when you are reprimanding lords three times your age, and you will always be my Shireen, even when you are capturing my King’s heart.” 

“He is so handsome,” Shireen says adoringly causing the older girls to laugh, though Myrcella cannot help her mind from agreeing.

“Aye, he is handsome, sweetling, and brave, and honorable. Everything a king ought to be,” Sansa says and Myrcella can hear the pride in her voice.

Sansa was not blinded by sisterly devotion, she spoke truly. Myrcella had watched him in the days before they left. He had gained the respect of the Lords, they had been the ones to crown him after all, but what she really admired was the way his men worshipped him. He was one of them. It didn’t matter if they were the heir to a great castle, or the boy who worked in the kitchens, Robb had fought beside each and every one of them in this long war. His sword had saved many of them as theirs had saved him, and there was a loyalty forged on the battlefield that could not be replicated elsewhere. 

“Long may he reign,” Myrcella said solemnly.

***

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the loveliest princess in the Seven Kingdoms,” he said as he approached. 

Shireen and Myrcella’s eyes flicked up to him and he fought the urge to laugh when Shireen wacked Myrcella on the back of the head, “The king is speaking to you.”

“By the gods, Shireen,” Myrcella said as she turned around to scowl at the younger girl. The two looked more like siblings than cousins when they were like this, and he enjoyed that Myrcella’s royal façade was lowered in the presence of the younger girl. 

“You can spare Princess Myrcella’s head, Princess Shireen, I was speaking to you,” he says and the little girl goes pink.

“Sorry Ella,” Shireen says, smoothing the older girls hair, “Hello, your grace.”

“How are you finding the ride? There is a litter should you have need of it,” he says to them. 

“That is very kind, your grace, but I prefer the fresh air. Though are you tired, sweetling?” Myrcella asks, turning to her cousin with kindness and concern now.

“No, I also prefer the fresh air, thank you, your grace,” Shireen says, shadowing her cousin’s elegance, the perfect picture of a young lady. 

“You are most welcome, would you permit me to escort you both a while?” he asks genuinely, forgetting the fact that he has no need of their permission.

“If it please, your grace, we are honored by your company,” Myrcella says with a polite bow of her head. 

Now that he had permission, he didn’t know what to say. He found it easier to speak to Shireen, but he found himself wanting to know more about Myrcella, wanted to know if she was like the girl he used to know. Luckily, Shireen saved him.

“Is Winterfell a long way from here, your grace?”

“Aye, a very long way. We will be riding for the better part of a month.”

“Will we see bandits and hill tribes?” 

“No, princess, they would not threaten a party so large as ours, especially not a royal procession with all the king’s men,” he says to her reassuringly.

He is surprised when the little girl’s face falls, “Oh… Ser Davos always said that there were many of both along the King’s Road.”

“Ser Davos?” he asked, he had never heard that name and was trying to remember his lessons with Maester Luwin, wondering if he should remember his house’s words.

“The Onion Knight, your grace! He is the greatest knight that’s ever lived, I’m teaching him to read, and he’s teaching me all about the sea!” 

Robb looked at Myrcella questioningly, who smiles, “He was sworn to her father, your grace. He is a loyal knight, and a good man…” she says and he knows where she is leading.

“You know, Princess Shireen, as a royal ward, you will be in need of a sworn shield. I had thought to pick one of my brave soldiers for the honor, but perhaps you would prefer your Florian?” he asks, referencing his sister Sansa’s favorite stories.

To his horror, the little girl starts to cry, pressing her cheek against her counsin’s back as Myrcella reaches a hand back to stroke her arm, “Forgive her, your grace, she is not used to kindness from kings.”

The way she said it, made it sound as though she was not either, so when he answered her, he swears to them both, “Soon she will be. There will be a day not long from now, when you both will know that of all men, a king’s word will be kept. I swear this by the old gods and the new.” 

They both look at him, the beautiful Southern princesses, and for the first time he realizes the great responsibility he had taken on. These girls would depend on him for their protection, and ultimately, to make good matches for them. They were the jewels of the kingdom, and would be almost as sought after as his sister Sansa. 

As he has been thinking this over, Myrcella seems to have been considering his words. 

“Do you have a Florian of your own, Princess Myrcella?” he asks and is surprised when Shireen strokes her arm comfortingly. 

“Not anymore, your grace. He was too valiant for his own good,” she says sadly and he decides not to press her.

“Well then, Princess Shireen, will you help me find someone suitable to guard your cousin?” he asks the younger girl.

“How about you, your grace?” the little girl asks him impishly.

He let’s out a laugh, “Aye, I’d be honored, princess, but perhaps someone a bit less conspicuous?”

“Hmm… I do not know many Northern knights, your grace,” she said.

“There are not many Northern knights, princess, the practice is not as popular where I’m from.”

“Well then how shall we pick?”

“Perhaps we’ll hold a tournament for the honor,” he jested.

“It is no honor, your grace,” Myrcella said, and he was surprised by the sadness in her tone, “And it is no small thing to ask someone to give up their life for mine.”

“You are right, princess, it is no small thing. But know this, there are thousands who would beg for the honor, if only they were free to do so.”

***

They have been on the road for nearly a week when they stop for the night at Riverrun the ancestral home the Stark’s mother, Catelyn Tully. Myrcella remembered Lady Catelyn, the way her brood swarmed around her, the way she could command even a teenage Robb with a simple look. 

It was like a castle from a fairytale, made of grey stone with peaked towers, and a moat for protection. 

“It’s like the tower in the tale of Magara,” Shireen says as her head pokes out of the litter. 

“How does that one go again, sweetling?” Myrcella asks her dreamily as she rests her head on her elbow, looking forward to a warm bed. 

“Lady Magara was the daughter of Lord Rylin. His son’s had all died, so he held a tournament for the hand of his daughter. Knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms came to seek her hand and title, but unbeknownst to all of them, Lady Magara had already fallen in love with her father’s squire, a common boy. He entered the tournament under a false name, and won every challenge. When it came time to reveal himself, her father was so impressed by him, that he held to the terms of the tournament and granted him his daughter and ancestral title. They say that the love of the Lady and her Lord was so great, that when he died she threw herself from the highest tower, desperate to reunite with her lost love.”

“And what do you think of that, Shireen?” she asks as she admires the beautiful castle.

“I think they were both foolish,” Shireen says solemnly and Myrcella can’t help but smile.

As they exit the litter, she sees Robb and Sansa greeting an old man.

“Your grace, princess, welcome to Riverrun,” he says to them, and Myrcella realizes he must be Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. 

She watches as his gaze lingers on Sansa, who smiles up kindly at one of her only living relatives. 

“You look so much like your mother did at your age, Princess Sansa,” he says to her, and she can hear sadness in his voice.

“Thank you, Uncle. I know how much she loved and admired you, and I thank you for your welcome,” Sansa says, and Myrcella watches the admiration on Robb’s face for his gracious sister.

“I’ve put you in your mother’s old room, I can show you, if you’d like,” the Blackfish asks, offering his grandniece his arm. 

Myrcella tries not to feel the jealousy she feels when she sees it, every man who had ever thought on her kindly had been butchered. But her dearest friend deserves all the kindness in the world, and she likes the Blackfish on sight for the love he bears her.

“Princess Myrcella, may I escort you and the Princess Shireen to your chambers?” the Northern drawl of Jon Snow breaks her out of her reverie. 

“I would be very grateful, thank you,” she says. She never knew quite what to call him, he was technically a royal bastard, but she felt like he deserved some title, for he was a prince in all but name.

He offers her his arm, and Shireen grabs her hand as he takes them across the drawbridge. 

“This would be a perfect castle for a battle, Ella,” Shireen says to her as she looks around.

“Aye, you’re right, princess. The lookouts are well placed for archers, and the extensive moat makes it one of the most secure in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps we should have you sit on the king’s war councils?” Jon asks her, and Myrcella can see now why Arya loved him. He didn’t treat Shireen like a silly little girl for talking of war.

“There won’t be war councils now, will their Lord Snow?” Shireen asks him and his eyes crinkle at the title.

“I’m no lord, princess, just Jon if it please you,” he says to her.

“Then you must call me Shireen, mustn’t he Ella?” Shireen asks her. 

“I dare say he must, sweetling, if you’re to be friends. And I imagine Jon Snow would be a good friend to have,” she says conspiratorially, liking the surprising way Jon’s cheeks flush.

“Then you must call me Jon, too, princess, for I could be a friend to you, should you have need of one,” he says to her earnestly.

“Then I suppose you ought to call me Myrcella,” she says with a smile.

At that Shireen lets go of her hand, moving in between the two of them and grabbing one of each of their hands. It is her turn to look up at Jon conspiratorially, “When you’re really friends, she’ll let you call her Ella.”

When Myrcella meets Jon’s eyes, there is humor in them, and not for the first time she thinks that a lot of pain could have been spared had the great houses of the kingdom let their daughters negotiate for them.


	4. Chapter 3

They had been on the road for weeks, and it seemed as though every castle they stopped at had a daughter. She was always of marriageable age, though that is where the similarities ended. Some were beautiful and quiet, others homely and vivacious, some were meek, others bold and Robb had to dance with them all. He was never able to sit next to his family where he’d like to be at the feasts, and instead he was given the seat of honor in between the Lord and his daughter.

They are nearing the edge of the North, the snows had become their companion on the road. He had marveled when his sister Sansa had started weeping when she saw it. She’d refused to use the litter at all that day, and when they’d arrived at the castle they were lodging in, the task of removing her boots had fallen to him and Jon and she’d sat imperious in a chair as they yanked the leather that had been frozen to her until they were all laughing like children.

He always made the rounds as they marched on, not wanting to become disconnected from his men, but no matter what, he always found his way back to the little group surrounding his family. Sansa kept the Southern Princesses close to her and the girls were like their own beautiful army, as Princess Shireen road on the back of one of the older girls’ horses. 

He had come across them all laughing once, when Jon had put Shireen in front of him on his horse and at her request had dared into a gallop. The spirited shrieks of the little girl had been heard throughout the ranks, and he knew that more than one man had been reminded of his own children who he had been separated from for too long. 

Jon’s friends from the Night’s Watch completed their little court, and Robb had been surprised when both Myrcella and Shireen knew Sam Tarly. Myrcella had stayed with his family as a girl, and she’d shyly confessed to him that she still had the book he had given her, and he was a distant cousin of Shireen’s. He knew already that Sam was going to be one of his advisors, and he saw how the princesses, including his sister, gravitated towards his goodness.

They were at a feast now, and he was sat next to a beautiful brunette young lady and he tried to make conversation with her as best he could. He can’t help that his group of friends is being loud, he can’t help that Jon had made a big show of jestingly challenging Sam to a duel if he sought to rob him of the next dance with Myrcella. He can’t help it that Myrcella looked every inch a Queen as she held her head high when she looked down at Jon haughtily when he bowed to her, couldn’t stop the deep Northern laugh that erupted from his brother when he saw it. He couldn’t help it that Myrcella’s laughter is girlish as Jon guides her around the floor, he couldn’t help it if his Northern Lords are enchanted by the sight of it in spite of themselves.

“It was good of you, to take pity on the disgraced Princess,” the girl to his left says, though she doesn’t sound too happy about this goodness. 

“She was not disgraced, my lady, she is blameless,” he says as he tries to ignore the way Myrcella’s hair sparkles in the firelight. 

“Of course, your grace. I only meant that you are kind to take on such a burden,” she says, and he wonders if her gaze had followed his to the way men had lined up to take Jon’s spot when Shireen had beckoned him to dance with her instead. Wonders if he noticed that men bow, even now, just as low to her as they do to his sister, Sansa.

Above all else, Robb can’t help it if he didn’t find Myrcella Baratheon to be a burden at all.

***

She had been dancing for what felt like hours. She couldn’t resist when Jon had asked her, and had felt young and playful when he lead her around the floor. She had been raised not to make a spectacle of herself, but there was a freedom and wildness to her Northern companions that reminded her of the childhood that had been taken from all of them. 

She was surprised with how many of the Northern Lords had asked her to dance. They seemed to be growing used to her, thanks in large part to Shireen. No man could deny her sweet cousin, and she knew that the way the girl clung to her made Myrcella seem less threatening. Now, the same Lords who had suggested banishment and even death asked for her hand in a dance. She found that she liked their open way of speaking, these were not the simpering lords of the South who spoke so sweetly to your face as they plotted your demise.

She was about to find Shireen to retire, it was way past the younger girl’s bedtime, when the King was suddenly before her.

“Your grace,” she says, sweeping into a deep curtsey.

“Princess,” he says, lowering himself in a bow, though he needn’t. “I wonder if you might honor me with a dance?”

“If it please, your grace,” she says, her eyes downcast the way her septa taught her. 

The music is slower than that she had been dancing to, and the melody is sweet and full of yearning as Robb guides her in the unfamiliar dance. He is an easy partner to follow, so sure in his own movements, and she is surprised to be pliant in his arms.

“Is the floor beautiful, princess?” he asks her, his deep Northern drawl a dizzying contrast to the light music.

“Not particularly, your grace,” she says, a small twitch on her lips.

“It is only that you seem enthralled by it, I wonder how you know where to put your feet next” he says as the dance moves them closer, their fingers touching as their arms raise above their heads. 

“That is why I have you, your grace, to lead me,” she says and she can feel his gaze on the blush rising on her cheek.

“Would it not be easier then, to look at me so you might know my intentions?” he asks her, his voice low.

She raises her gaze to his, and there is something vital in his blue eyes as he continues to lead her. He is just as easy to follow now, but it is though she is chained to him, robbed of her free will as his gaze holds her captive. 

“See princess, isn’t that so much easier?” he asks, a smile threatening his lips.

“Forgive me, your grace, but no. I fear I am just as ignorant of your intentions now, perhaps, even more,” she confesses and is surprised to hear the words come from her lips. 

She is saved by the music ending, and mercifully she can drop into a curtsey, with her eyes on the floor once again. He is courteous as well, as he thanks her for the dance before rejoining the high table. 

“Come sweetling, time for bed,” she says, holding her hand out to Shireen. The little girl is a chatterbox as they dress for bed and Myrcella falls asleep to her wistfully saying how handsome and gallant the young King is. That night, there are no images in Myrcella’s dreams, only music.

*** 

They’ve set a more punishing pace as they neared Winterfell, but no one complained. The procession had disbanded, Lords had been left at their castles to reunite with their families, and only his retinue and council remained. They would set up a court at Winterfell eventually, but nothing that would rival the Red Keep. What Northerners most needed now was home and family, they did not need courtly rituals to keep them loyal. 

He is riding somewhat removed from the group, but he can hear the conversation his brother and sister are having a few paces away.

“Do you think Old Nan still makes kidney pies?” he hears Sansa ask Jon.

“With the peas and onions? I hope so…” Jon says and Robb can feel his own stomach grumble at the thought.

“And Bran? Do you think he is still too smart for his own good?” Sansa asks him.

“Aye, he certainly is. We’ve had ravens from him during the war, he has a sharp mind.” Jon says with pride.

“And Rickon? Do you think he is still wild, roaming the castle with Shaggydog?” Sansa asks wistfully.

“Wild and sweet, just like he was Sansa. Everything will be just like it was, I promise.”

“Nothing will be like it was,” Sansa says sadly, and he knows she is thinking, like his, of their parents, and the sister they hadn’t found.

“Perhaps you’re right. But we will never be parted again, and the North will always remember the way it was, in the golden summer of our youth,” Jon says and for a moment Robb remembers how happy they all were, in the safe heaven of their winter palace. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jon Snow, I can’t bear it.”

“What do you mean?” he sees Jon turn to her in confusion.

“We will be parted again. How long do you think it will last before I’m married off?”

“Robb wouldn’t do that,” Jon says, and Robb is pleased that at least one of his siblings has faith in him.

“He is the king, Jon. It is what is expected of him,” and not for the first time, Robb knows that the little girl she was is gone. They may have spent four years on a battlefield, but it was she who had earned the hardest education, learning the game of thrones from the greatest liars in the Seven Kingdoms.

“You may be right, Sansa, but I was in the war with your brother. I was with him when Joffrey sent him letters outlining the ways he would harm you if we pressed on. I was there the day that Lord Cerwyn nearly lost his head for suggesting that perhaps one girl wasn’t worth a kingdom. Robb may be the king, but you will not be sold, what’s expected be damned.”

“And if you’re wrong, Jon?”

“Then I will ruin everything and steal you back. Robb is not the only one who went to war for you.”

***

“Just sound it out, start here,” she hears the sweet voice of her cousin saying from the litter.

“A-N-D E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E I-N T-H-E G-R-E-A-T P-A-L-A-C-E,” she heard the gruff voice of Grenn saying from inside.

Myrcella was on horseback, but Shireen had chosen the litter today so that she might continue to teach her new friend Grenn how to read. She had an aptitude for educating, and her patience was like a gift to the grown man who had always been told he was stupid. 

“That’s right! Now again!,” she heard the little girl clap and she couldn’t help the smile of pride on her face. 

It was a marvel her cousin was as sweet and good-natured as she was. Her father had been a grim man, her mother terrifying, and when her mother took over her guardianship after their deaths, Shireen knew no more kindness from her aunt than Myrcella had ever had. 

“She’s a dangerous one,” Sam said to her, as they were riding side by side.

“Dangerous, my lord?” she asks with an arch of her eyebrow. 

Like Shireen and Sansa, she had fallen a little bit in love with Sam Tarly, the good natured and wise companion of their favorite dark knight. 

“She spreads loyalty wherever she goes. Like you do. Like the Starks do. I’ve never seen a group of people more apt at making people love them,” he says with a slight shake of his head. He is looking about him wonder, and she realizes then that he does not count himself in their ranks.

“And you, Sam Tarly. Do you doubt our devotion?” she asks him, not being able to resist the teasing lilt out of her voice.

“Well that’s just my good looks, princess. Can’t be helped I’m afraid,” he says with a sigh as if it his lot in life to be irresistible. 

“It’s a good deal more than that, my lord, I assure you,” she says earnestly now and the smile that lights up his face is priceless.

The party stopped as the great sight of Winterfell finally stood before them. Myrcella watched as Robb and Jon hopped off their horses, both holding their hands out to Sansa as she got off her own. The three held hands as they pressed on on foot, Grey Wind and Ghost materializing as if out of thin air. It was haunting almost, the sight of them walking purposefully back to the home they had all lost, but then she hears Sansa’s melodic laughter and they all break out in a run, children once again in the shadow of their ancestral home.


	5. Chapter 4

There was no describing what it felt like to be back in Winterfell. The people had all come out to greet them, there were so many familiar faces that it was like stepping back in time. He would greet them all, one by one, in time, but for now, there were only two faces he searched for. 

“ROBB! SANSA! JON!” Rickon said as he ran over to them. 

The littlest Stark, so little when they left, was a boy of ten now, but Robb caught him like he was still the scrawny six year old he was the last time he had seen him. He would hold onto his younger brother forever if he could. It defied logic that these two had made it out unscathed, that Ser Rodrick had gotten back in time to defend Winterfell against the treasonous Ironborn. 

He didn’t put his brother down as he walked to join Sansa and Jon who were holding Bran between them, relegated to the chair he’d always be in. 

“They’re here, Bran! Just like we dreamed!” Rickon says and Robb is surprised by the look of reverence Rickon has for his older brother. 

“Just like I promised, brother,” Bran says before his head is pulled towards Sansa’s chest as she strokes his hair. They had always been close, only Bran liked to read as much as she did, and they’d been companions when he and Jon had gone hunting with father.

“What about me, Sansa?” Rickon says impishly from Robb’s arms and he sees tears on his sister’s face as she laughs.

“I’m sorry, sweetling, come here,” she says, and to Robb’s ears she sounds like their mother.

They are so caught up in their reunion that they don’t notice the rest of their party had finally arrived. Only Rickon does.

“Ella?” Rickon asks, his eyes wide in wonder as he looks across the courtyard to where she has stood, clearly not wanting to interrupt them.

“My prince,” Myrcella says as she lowers herself into a deep curtsey. 

“I’m a prince now, Ella, do you know what that means?” he asks her as he removes himself from his sister’s grasp, “It means I can marry you someday.” 

Myrcella’s giggle is like windchimes, “And would you be a kind and caring husband, my prince?”

“Of course, I’d read to you, like father read to mother, and I’d never let anyone hurt you,” he says, his little boy voice serious in his vow.

“Well then, I would be a very lucky wife, indeed,” she says sweetly, her eyes sparkling and Robb wonders if Rickon reminds her of the younger brother she had lost, “But for now, my prince, may I introduce you to my cousin, the Princess Shireen?”

“Of Dragonstone?” he asks excitedly.

“The very same,” she says as she brings the little girl forward. 

“My prince,” Shireen says, a perfect shadow of her cousin. 

He fights the urge to smile as he sees Rickon look at the little girl in wonder, remembering when he had been visited by a princess from far away, bringing beauty he had not known existed into his world. 

“Princess Shireen, I welcome you to Winterfell. My home and my protection are yours,” Rickon says, bowing to her, and Robb knows that he and Bran have been doing a Lord’s duty in his absence. The war that had spared their lives had not spared their youth, and there was no jest in Rickon’s words.

“Thank you, Prince Rickon,” Shireen says, and though they are only a girl of nine and a boy of ten, Rickon offers his arm to her, and she places her hand on it gracefully as he leads her into his home.

***

“I think you may have some competition, princess,” the king says to her as the young pair enter the castle, Sansa racing behind, “It would have to be quite a girl to turn Rickon’s head from his lady love.” 

“My cousin is just that, your grace, quite a girl,” Myrcella says, thinking of how years before, it had been Robb who had welcomed her into his home, offering his protection to her.

“I’d have to agree,” he says and she turns to him, appraising him.

“She is not used to people not remarking on her scars, your grace, I fear it will take quite a husband to compete with the kindness the Stark men have shown her,” she says.

“She will have a husband that deserves her, princess, I trust that you’ll make sure of it,” he says, his blue gaze on her. 

If she hadn’t been so intent on confirming his meaning, she might have let her gaze drop to the ground. 

“Me, your grace?” she asks incredulously.

“We’ll help, of course, you needn’t worry about doing all the hard work on your own, but I thought as her guardian, you would want to?”

“But we are your wards, and you are the king, by right you can make any match for us that you choose.”

“I can, that doesn’t mean that I will.”

“I fear you will spoil me as well, your grace,” she says, curtsying slightly in acknowledgment of his kindness.

“I intend to, princess. Now, if I may steal my brother’s lines, Princess Myrcella, I welcome you to Winterfell. My home and my protection are yours,” he says, with a slight bow and he offers her his arm. 

Just as she had when she was a girl of fourteen, she rests her hand lightly on his arm, and just like he had when he was sixteen, he looked over at her when they made contact. She looked demurely to the floor as he brought her into his ancestral home, but when she felt the slight tremor that shot through him at being home again, she tightened her grip on his arm and was surprised to feel him relax under her touch.

***

He is sitting in a large leather armchair in front of the fire, and what remains of his family is around him, the wolves in a pack on the floor. 

“And then, Ser Rodrick said, ‘Those Ironborn scum pray to a god at the bottom of the sea. Let us return them to him!’ and they loosed the arrows. A few tried to scale the castle, but we beat them back, and in the morning, they were all gone, and no one dared try again!” Rickon tells them, the memory distant enough to have taken on legendary proportions.

“You were very brave, sweetling,” Sansa says lovingly, “You defended our home when we could not.” 

“Aye, and Bran too! It was he who sentenced the traitor Theon to die,” Rickon says proudly, but the elder siblings all look at Bran. He was twelve now, but this would have been ten when this happened.

“Ser Rodrick never said, Bran…” Robb starts, but how do you apologize to your brother who’s youth was stolen from him?

“He was a traitor, Robb. He would have killed us if he could. He was father’s ward, he was our brother and he betrayed us,” Bran says stoically, and Robb meet’s Jon’s gaze.

“I’m proud of you, Bran. Father would be proud. I am just sorry.”

“What of Arya?” Rickon asks, and all of their gazes turn to Sansa.

“I haven’t seen her since before father’s execution. She escaped the same day they killed Septa Mordane. Her dancing instructor was found, murdered, he must have stalled the Kingsguard,” Sansa says hollowly.

It is Jon who let’s out a short, pained laugh, “Kingsguard. Making war on little girls and old women.”

“It was not war, Jon. War implies both sides stand an equal chance. They rounded us up for the slaughter, some just met their end more quickly than others…” she says, her eyes on the flames. 

Robb looks at his brothers, Jon, twenty and a fearsome warrior, Bran, twelve and wise beyond his years, Rickon, ten with a nobility that matched his father’s and they all look back at him and nod. They had failed their sister once, and they never would again. 

“You were not slaughtered, Sansa. You fought and you survived and now they are all gone. No one will ever hurt you again. We promise.” 

***

“Can we build a snowman?” Shireen asks her excitedly as Myrcella fights to pull the thick wool stockings up her calves. 

“Stop squirming, sweetling, or we’ll never get outside,” she says and the little girl obeys, looking excitedly out the window at the falling snow. 

“Can we?” she asks again once Myrcella has pulled the hat over her ears.

“Yes, we can build a snowman, but you have to tell me if you get too cold, you are not use to the Northern chills. Do you promise?” Myrcella says, lowering her face to her cousin’s.

“I promise,” Shireen says, “Come on!” she says and drags a giggling Myrcella out of her chambers. 

Shireen had hardly slept the night before, tossing in turning in Myrcella’s bed despite the fact that she had her own chamber down the hall, so excited was she to be here. Myrcella had dressed them both in the warmest clothes they had, and Sansa had given Shireen free use of the clothes she’d outgrown since the last time she’d been home. So the two girls trudged out into the snow, bundled up and ready for their adventure. 

“It is so quiet,” Shireen said in wonder as the snow fell. 

“I know, sweetling, it’s like another world,” Myrcella said, her voice equally full of wonder. 

They ended up making an entire snow family, and as they were finishing up the father’s head, she saw the Stark boys trudging through the snow, oblivious to them. 

Jon and Robb walked with little Rickon between them, their wolves wrestling in the snow. Robb throws Rickon up in the air, and he looks so carefree that Myrcella can’t help but smile at Shireen. She then winks at the little girl as she rolls a snowball in her hands. Before she can think better of it, she launches it in the air and it hits Robb Stark squarely on the shoulder. 

He turns to her, ignoring the laughter of Jon and Rickon and says, “You attack your king, princess? That is certain death…” he says, his eyes narrowing at her playfully. 

The cold must have gotten to her brain, because she doesn’t sink to a curtsey, begging his apologies. Instead, a sly smile creeps on her face and says, “Only if you can catch me,” and hardly sees him lunge forward before she turns and runs. 

“Run Ella! I’ll protect you!” Rickon says and she turns just in time to see Rickon jumping on his brother’s back. 

Jon runs the other direction, chasing Shireen, who he scoops up easily, turning her so he is cradling her in his arms, “You are my prisoner now, Princess Shireen.” 

“Or are you mine, Jon Snow?” the little girl asks playfully as she takes a handful of snow and smashes it over his head. 

Myrcella is so caught up in watching them, that she doesn’t notice Robb lunging at her until he has already tackled her in the snow. It is freshly fallen and it cradles her like a pillow as her hair fans out around her. 

It is just like Jon grabbing Shireen, she tells herself, as Robb braces himself on top of her so as not to crush her. But Jon doesn’t take his gloved hand and wipe the snow from Shireen’s lips, like Robb does now. She had never been below a man like this, and she wonders why she is not afraid. She could swear that Robb’s eyes linger on her lips and she feels heat on her cheeks despite the cold. 

“Well you’ve caught me, your grace, am I to die?” she asks, quietly.

He opens his mouth to say something to her, but Rickon, in a haze of limbs comes and tackles him, pushing him off of her.

“I promised! I told you! Save yourself!” Rickon is saying in between giggles as Robb tickles his younger brother.

They don’t go in until the sky grows dark, and as Myrcella lowers herself into her steaming tub, she hugs her knees to her chest so she may lay her cheek on them, as the contemplates the abundant kindness of wolves.


	6. Chapter 5

He was still thinking of that snowy afternoon weeks later. He should not have done it, he knows that. She was a girl, his ward, a princess. Seven hells what had he been thinking?

He had tackled her to the ground, and had it not been for his brother, he may have done more. 

“Well you’ve caught me, your grace, am I to die?” she has asked him, those otherworldly green eyes meeting his.

The truly sick thing was, he liked holding her captive. He felt like an animal, a predator. Who knew that it would not be the war that did it, but the innocent gaze of a eighteen-year-old girl?

He thinks of this as he finishes dressing for the feast. As he pulls on his jerkin there is a light succession of taps on his door and he smiles at the familiar sound.

“Come in, Sansa,” he says.

She is a true beauty, this sister of his, in her gown of pale blue. 

“Who is attending tonight?” he asks her with a groan. They had invited all of the Lords or the North, but that is not what he is asking and she knows it.

“Lord Manderly is bringing his daughter, as are Lord Cerwyn and Lord Karstark. A Glover relation will be here and…” 

“I get the picture.”

“There is no rush, Robb. We’ve only been home a month, the Lords will not expect you to take a bride so soon.”

“The kingdom will want an heir before too long, Sansa. You know that.”

“What the kingdom wants is stability. Name Bran your heir and they will have it. Buy yourself some time.”

“Not you?”

“I am a girl, Robb. This is not Dorne, I cannot rule.”

“Oh but what a Queen you would be… a Queen of Love and Beauty and Wisdom and Mercy.”

“A pretty picture, brother, but one that will not be. I do not want your crown.”

“I do not want my crown.”

“And yet, it is yours.”

***

The Northern ladies did not like her. It didn’t matter that she wore her hair in the simple styles that they did, or that her dresses now were made of wool and fur rather than silk and lace. It didn’t matter that their husbands and fathers had grown to like her, perhaps that even made it worse.

She was grateful to be seated in between Bran and Sam at the feast. The two boys had developed a fast friendship, their minds the perfect companions for one another, and she liked listening as they ricocheted from one topic to the next in a never-ending whirl of information and insight.

Her eyes drifted to where the king was making his way through the great hall. He stopped, speaking with this lord, clapping that one on the back. You’d never know he wasn’t born to it. She watches as the same Northern ladies who scowl at her, preen at him. He twirls this one and that on the dance floor and she watches as they play their different acts for him. Some of them try to lead him, a mistake with a man such as Robb who is so used to his command. Others wilt beneath him, which is no better, a Northern king has no use for a delicate flower. There is one though, a Karstark girl, with a fierce Northern beauty about her, that neither commands nor cowers and he smiles at her laughter. 

“May I have the honor of a dance, princess?” Jon Snow asks at her side. 

“Of course,” she says as she places her hand in his and lets him lead her to the floor. 

Dancing with him always made her feel childish. He adopted the courtesies she had been raised with and they were so out of place with his Northern frankness that they always appeared a parody. She would amplify hers in return, until they were so busy bowing to one another they almost forgot to dance. But then he’d spin her and catch her, leading her effortlessly around the floor and she would be swept up in the magic of his strength. It was almost like having a big brother  
she’d told him foolishly one night and there had been warmth in his smile.

“I hear there is to be a tournament for the honor of being your sworn shield,” he says as the dance brings them together.

“You can’t be serious, I thought that was all a joke,” she says.

“I don’t think my brother has the ability to joke when it comes to matters of your safety,” he says and she knows he sees the flush on her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to put a stop to it. Men should not compete to risk their life for mine.”

“I am going to put a stop to it, don’t you worry,” he says, but there is something in his voice that makes her look at him.

“Jon?”

“You can’t honestly think I’d trust someone else with your protection, can you?”

“But you’re the Hand of the King. You have far more important matters to attend to then my safety.”

“Ah, princess, but I am protector of the realm, and you are part of the realm, are you not?”

“Jon…”

“Myrcella…”

“You are too important to risk.” 

“As are you, princess,” he says solemnly.

She was the last princess of the Iron Throne. Of course they would need to keep her safe. She could rally the South even now if she dared, they wouldn’t dare risk her.

“Of course, I am a bargaining chip. You cannot risk the safety of your asset,” she says and hates how betrayed she feels. 

“You are a bargaining chip, princess, and an asset, but not for the reasons that you think. And trust me, the importance you have here has nothing to do with your name.”

She wanted to believe him, was desperate to. Everything they had done since she had come into their care had proved his words true, and as she looked in his eyes she saw no deception there. 

“You will protect me?”

“Always.”  
***

“You dance well, my lady,” he said, the courtesy he had said to all of the others falling more easily from his lips now.

“As do you, your grace,” she returns, a small smile on her lips. 

She was a true daughter of the North, this Karstark girl. A dark beauty, like his sister Arya would be, like his Aunt Lyanna is said to have been.

“It is uncommon in soldiers, I believe,” she says, the smile widening, “My father for example.”

She gestures to her father who is rather clumsily partnering his graceful sister Sansa and he can not help but return her smile. When the dance ends, he is surprised to be disappointed. He thanks her and heads to the high table where his brothers are seated. 

“Is the parade over so soon?” Bran teases him, earning a glare.

“Any contenders?” Jon asks on his left.

“Hard to say, what can you really learn from a dance?” he asks, and tries to banish the memory of a night when he had partnered a certain Southern Princess in a dance that had told him a great deal. 

“I’ll tell you one thing, she’s going to have to be quite a woman to supplant our sister as the Lady of Winterfell,” Bran says and Robb follows his gaze to where Sansa is accepting fealty from Lord Manderly, looking every inch a queen.

“Princess Myrcella,” Jon says and Robb’s gaze now flickers to where Lord Glover is introducing the princess to his eldest son, a twenty-four year old who had saved Robb twice on the battlefield. 

“What of her?” he asks reservedly, as her melodic laughter reaches his ears.

“There will be no need for a tournament,” Jon says. That is not what Robb had expected him to say.

Robb turns to him then, “You’ve found a suitable shield?”

“I have indeed. I will be her shield.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the Hand of the King, a member of the royal family, not a babysitter.”

“And the princess is not a baby,” Jon says, and the way he says it implies that Robb is perfectly aware of that fact.

“Perhaps, but she is not an advisor either. Do you expect her to attend small council meetings? Your place is by my side,” he says incredulously.

“I’ll admit I don’t find the idea of her attending the small council as ridiculous as you do, but no I don’t expect her to attend. This will not interfere with my duties as Hand, I will nominate a deputy who will be with her when I am not, and if the gods are just she will not have need of that sort of protection here. But a sworn shield is more than just a sword; it is an unbreakable vow of protection and loyalty. I have already offered mine to her and I will not rescind it.”

No man, not even a king, could change his brother’s mind once it was made up and as Robb looked at the ferocity in Jon’s gaze he knew that he would not be denied this. He knew he had admired her from the start, he told the story of her holding her dagger out in front of her as she shielded the Princess Shireen the same way his brother Rickon told stories of Aegon the Conqueror. But he knew it stemmed from more than just admiration, he knew it was linked to Sansa, the way the princess had protected their sister when they could not, and he knew that on top of all that, he found the princess undeniably charming and kind, she was the person who made him laugh more than anyone else. To a man as serious as Jon, that was almost magic. 

“Can I ask Princess Shireen to dance?” Rickon asks, interrupting the silent conversation of his older brothers.

“Yes Rickon, but just one, then it is off to bed,” Robb said, knowing both the prince and princess should already be asleep. 

Rickon pushed away from the table and ran over to the Princess Shireen who had been talking to Sam and Grenn, the latter being her sworn shield until her Onion Knight made his way here. He watched as his little brother whispered in the princess’ ear and she nodded with a smile. She took his hand gracefully and the two set out in the dance, perfect miniatures of the older couples. He saw Princess Myrcella wink at her little cousin as the Glover boy twirled her in his arms, and the way Rickon’s eyes never left Shireen’s face as he lead her through the dance. 

Could it be so simple, thought Robb as he watched his little brother and the lovely princess. Could it be so simple for two orphaned children to fall in love?

***

“Princess Myrcella, I bid you a good evening,” the kindly Lord Glover said to her as he bent into a deep bow. 

“My Lord Glover, I am happy to see you again,” she says truthfully as she dips into a curtsey slightly deeper than his rank demanded.

“And I you, Princess. I am pleased to see you so at home here,” he says to her and she gives him a grateful smile, “May I introduce you to my son, Gawen?”

“Princess,” the younger gentleman says to her as he bows low, “Tales of your beauty reached us even in Deepwood Motte, I am pleased to say it was not exaggerated.” 

“You have raised a flatterer, Lord Glover. Tell me, Lord Gawen, why did I not meet you on the Kingsroad?”

“I had to go home, it seems the Bolton’s thought to add a castle to their retinue. I disabused them of the notion,” he says, and there is no pride there, only the grim determination she had seen in so many of the Northern Lords.

He was a large man, towering over her, but he was handsome and had kind grey eyes and a mouth she’d like to hear laugh.

“If I may be so bold, princess, would you honor me with a dance?” he asks and extends his hand to hers.

“The honor is mine, my lord,” she says remembering her courtesies as she places her small hand in his large one.

He leads her to the floor and she is surprised that such a large man could be so graceful. His hand was firm on the small of her back as he pulled her to him and she was embarrassed by the small gasp that escaped her lips. 

“Are you well, princess?” he asked her, and from the way his grey eyes sparkled it is clear that he heard it. 

“Very well, my lord, I thank you,” she says as he moves her across the floor. 

“So I know now that they did not lie about your beauty, but is everything else they say about you true?” he asks her as he takes her hand gently to spin her.

“I couldn’t say my lord, what do they say?,” she says and let’s her eyes flick up to his so he can see her small smile.

“They say that you are strong, that you drew a dagger on ten men, they say that you are loyal, that you threw your body in front of Princess Sansa’s when a blade threatened to come down on her cheek, they say that you are kind, that one of the King’s brothers’ has already proposed marriage.” 

“Aye, my lord, those things happened, but it is easy to be strong and loyal and kind when it is for the ones you love.”

“Blessed are the few within those ranks, princess,” he says, and then he holds her by her waist and lifts her into the air above his head, turning in a circle before bringing her back down so that her feet touch the floor once again. His eyes don’t leave hers, and this time it his breath that hitches when a strand of blonde hair grazes his cheek.

“I am the blessed one, my lord, I assure you,” she says as the song ends. 

He bows to her formally and takes her hand in his before pressing a kiss to the back of it. She feels the soft hair of his mustache tickling it and she is surprised to want to feel it again. 

He rises then, “Thank you, Princess Myrcella, for the dance. And now I can go sing my songs, and tell them all, whoever will listen, that all the stories are true.” 

“Perhaps no one will care,” she says with a small smile on her lips, liking the teasing way he speaks to her and how it mixes with the truth she hears in his words. 

She finally gets the laugh she’d been hoping for, and just like she suspected, it transformed his entire being.

“No one can resist tales of beautiful princesses, highness, I assure you of that.”


	7. Chapter 6

“Have they all gone?” Robb asks Jon as he comes into the hall to break his fast. 

“Nearly, Lord Glover begged his apologies, but had to return to Deepwood Motte unexpectedly. He hoped you would allow his son, Gewan, attend the small council in his place,” Jon says with a smirk.

“Is that right?,” Robb asks knowing there had been no cause for Lord Glover to return.

“It is because of Princess Myrcella, of course. Apparently he fancies himself in love with her,” Jon says with a small shake of his head. 

“In love with her? He’s known her for what? The space of a dance,” Robb says dismissively, though he feels a sharp pain in his stomach thinking of the way Myrcella’s eyes had not left the young Lord’s when he’d lifted her above him. 

“We’ll allow it, I assume? Him to sit on the small council I mean.”

“Of course we will. He’s a good soldier and a loyal friend.”

“Right… and Lord Karstark has also remained, for the small council. He wondered if his daughter might stay on for a little while as well, so that she does not get lonely at Karhold?,” Jon asks with his second smirk of the morning and Robb has a half of mind to wipe it from his face.

“Of course she may stay,” Robb said, thinking of the assured young woman he had partnered the night before. 

“Well isn’t this tidy…” Jon says and now Robb has had enough.

“Isn’t there a princess you are meant to be guarding, dear brother?”

Apparently he isn’t as menacing as his men would like to believe, because his brother only laughs before giving him a mock bow, “Of course, your grace,” and turning on his heel in search of a sleeping princess.

***

Myrcella wakes up to the sound of a knock on her door. She goes to get up, but is in a mess of tangled limbs, and only then does she realize that Sansa and Shireen are on either side of her in the big bed, having been up late reminiscing about the events of the evening. 

She rises from bed, pulling her fur-trimmed robe around her slender frame, and opens the door with an unladylike yawn.

“Good morning, Princess,” Jon says with a smile. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t my sworn protector,” she says, as she steps aside so that he may come in.

“Oh I see this is where all the beauty has been hiding,” he says jokingly as Sansa and Shireen stretch awake. Myrcella is sure she imagines the way Jon’s eyes linger on Sansa’s recumbent form, or the way she smiles shyly as she raises the furs up to her chin. 

“I thought you might like to take a walk this morning, Myrcella, before I have small council in the afternoon,” he says. 

“I’d be delighted Jon, if you can spare the time. And you two? Will you be joining us?” she asks the pair of princesses who had not yet moved.

“No,” Sansa says grumpily, but she smooths Shireen’s hair as the little girl crawls into her arms.

“But send breakfast,” Shireen says sleepily as she curls into the older girl. 

“Pathetic,” Myrcella says lovingly before turning to Jon, “Shall we leave them to it?”

After she had washed and gotten dressed in her warmest clothes, she joins him outside her chambers and takes the arms he offers her. 

“Where shall we go, Myrcella? The Weirwood?” he asks her as he leads her out into the cold. 

“What about the Glass Gardens? I have not been back there since our return,” she says, remembering how much she’d loved them as a girl. 

He is about to say something when they are interrupted by the form of Gewan Glover, “Princess,” he says sweeping her a bow, “Jon,” he says with a polite bow of his head. 

“Lord Gewan, good morrow,” Myrcella says and hopes the breathlessness in her voice can be explained away by the cold. 

“I had come to seek you actually, I was going to ask you to join me for a walk, but I see you have already begun yours,” he says and she could swear there is a secret conversation going on between him and Jon.

“Actually, my lord, I had offered to take the Princess to the Glass Gardens, but if you have the time I would be most grateful, as I have a few matters to attend to here,” Jon says and when she turns to look at him with a question in her eyes, he has the audacity to wink at her.

“Of course, I’d be honored, princess?” Gewan says, offering her his arm. 

She thinks she may have to scold Jon Snow later on, but as Lord Gewan whispers something sweet in her ear, she thinks perhaps maybe not. 

***

He is about to get his horse for a ride when he sees Jon walking back to the castle. 

“I thought you were with the Princess?” he demands.

“She had another offer,” Jon says.

“And who might that have been?” Robb asks through is teeth.

“Lord Gewan,” Jon says, as though it is obvious, and it is. 

“By the gods, Jon. You are her sworn shield. Isn’t part of that protecting her from suitors? He is a man grown and she is our ward, she is a child!”

“She is not a child, Robb. Lord Gewan has noticed, haven’t you?” 

Robb ignores the pointed question, pushing past him. 

“They are headed for the Glass Gardens, brother,” Jon calls after him knowingly and Robb takes off in that direction.

The whole way he tells himself that this how he would react if Sansa were wandering about the estate accompanied only by a suitor. 

***

The Glass Gardens were exactly like she remembered, warm and full of life. Vegetation sprouted from all around her and she wandered amongst the flowers as she looked above and saw the snow silently hitting the glass roof. 

Lord Gewan kept a gentleman’s distance from her as they wandered about, making pleasant conversation with her. 

“Winter roses?” she asks him, looking at the haunting blue flower. 

“Aye, princess, they are native to the North. Tough little things,” he says as he crosses until he is standing next to her, his calloused finger touching the petal gently.

“They’d have to be, to survive up here, I’d wager,” she says admiringly. 

“You seem to be doing well enough, princess,” he says quietly and she ducks her head to hide her blush. 

“Don’t,” he says, his finger guiding her chin up to face him, “Don’t hide such beauty, princess.”

“My lord…” she says, taking a step back from him. 

His grey eyes glimmer as he steps forward, “You are as soft as a flower, princess, and as lovely, I only sought a better look.”

“Just a look? That’s all, on your honor?” she asks him, taking another step back, though she is not sure which way she would like him to answer.

“Perhaps a bit more than a look,” he says and she is surprised at the gasp that comes from her lips when he suddenly pulls her to him, “But no more than you permit,” he says and lowers his face to hers until he can catch her lips. 

She had never been kissed, but even she knew he was an expert. His hold on her was firm but his lips were gentle, and he took advantage of the sigh that escaped her lips by letting his tongue enter her mouth. 

She let’s herself give into the sensation for a moment, before she remembers who she is, and what this could mean. 

“My lord! We mustn’t,” she says, pushing herself away from him. 

He is about to protest, but there is nothing that can stop a man so quick as the word of his King. 

“Yes, my lord, really, you mustn’t,” Robb Stark says, and if his voice and position wasn’t enough, the direwolf by his side brooked no discussion.


	8. Chapter 7

He had heard her protest, but before that he had seen her surrender. She had blossomed for him like a flower, and Robb had never hated being king so deeply. 

If he were just another Lord, he would have challenged Gewan then and there to a duel, but there could never be a fair fight between them while a crown lay on his head.

“My king,” Lord Gewan said, with a deep bow.

“Your grace,” Princess Myrcella said, her cheeks ablaze.

“Come, Princess, I will escort you back to the castle,” he says, holding his hand out for her. 

To her credit she does not look to her Northern Lord, she only acquiesces, and places her small, gloved hand in his. He leads her back out into the snow, Grey Wind on her other side and they walk in silence back to the castle. 

“You should not have been alone with him, princess,” Robb says to her. 

She opens her mouth to say something, then clearly thinks better of it, and simply nods. “Yes, your grace.”

“Had you wanted to go to the Glass Gardens, I would have taken you, or Jon, or Sam,” he offers helplessly, taken aback by her humility.

“Thank you, your grace, I shall ask one of you next time,” she says. 

By the gods she is perfect, he thinks, like a great castle from the Age of Heroes, beautiful and impenetrable. 

“Would you prefer to take a turn about the castle before we return?” he asks her, at a loss of what to say next.

“No, your grace, I would not wish to waste your time,” she says lightly, a gracious princess.

“Well I wish to, princess,” he says, as formal as she, though a good deal more petulant. 

“As you wish, your grace, I would be delighted to join you.” 

She is better at this than him. 

***

She had no idea what to make of the King. He seemed angry with her, yet he demanded her company. It felt like he was trying to catch her out, but to what end she knew not.

She had wanted to die the moment she heard his voice. Robb Stark, the boy she’d dreamed of kissing as a little girl, but now her king, her guardian, and perhaps even her friend. She knew then that her Septa had been right, that sins are always outed in the end, some in the beginning it seems.

They walked in silence once again until the King says, “When the time comes, I will make you a match.”

“You are very kind, your grace,” she says and is surprised when he stops abruptly.

“I do not say it to be kind, princess,” he says and his voice is like iron and steel and his blue eyes are like ice. 

She refuses the urge to cower, if she would not cower in front of a kingsguard who brought his steel down upon, she would not cower now in front of the honorable Northern King.

“Your grace?” 

“You are a princess, Myrcella, you are an unmarried princess in a foreign land, you can not put yourself at risk like that, you cannot put my kingdom at risk like that.”

“Your kingdom, your grace?” Surely his kingdom had to be stronger than a kiss, she thought but didn’t say. 

“You are my ward, princess, how many different ways do I have to swear my protection for you to understand?”

So that is it then, she thinks. He is not worried for her honor, but for his own. 

“I am sorry to have shamed you, your grace,” she says, sweeping into a defiant curtsey so that he may not see her rage. 

“Shamed me?! For the love of the gods, Myrcella, you think I care a wit for that? You are under my protection, I am bound to defend your body and your honor with my life if necessary, and you put it all at risk for a few sweet words, a stolen kiss? By the gods, you don’t even understand what could have happened.”

She is confused now. Every time she thinks she has figured out his reasons, he switches them on her.

“Nothing would have happened. Lord Gewan is honorable, your grace, you’ve said so yourself.”

***

You’ve said so yourself, she says to him. A true innocent, he thinks, he had not realized there were any left. 

He looks at her, this eighteen year old princess, who had been raised in the most corrupt castle in the Seven Kingdoms, yet had somehow emerged as pristine as the falling snow. An orphan, she had lost every single member of her family, apart from Shireen, who was now under her protection. Not for the first time, he feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility for the beautiful girl in front of him.

“Aye, I have, princess,” he says, his voice gentler now, “But there is a difference in honor between men, and honor with women.”

“He said ‘Only as far as you permit,’ your grace. Does that not sound honorable?” she asks him, and his heart breaks for the hope he hears in her voice. 

“No, princess, I fear it does not. True honor would mean he had never been there in the first place. Lord Gewan is a truly decent man, but there is an animal within even the best men, and it awakens when it encounters innocence and beauty such as yours,” he says, desperate to make her understand the power she had, and the consequences that could come from possessing it.

“Not you, your grace,” she says confidently, her green eyes searching his.

He thinks of the way he had tackled her in the snow, the way he had wanted to take possession of her then, or the way he had seen red when he had heard she was unaccompanied, the blood he tasted in his mouth when he saw her in the arms of another.

“Yes, princess, there is a caged beast within me as much as any man, more, I’d wager,” he says solemnly, expecting her to be frightened of him now that he’d made his confession.

“Is that why they call you the Young Wolf, your grace?” she asks playfully to his surprise and suddenly the façade of courtesy is gone, the vibrant beauty in her place, “Do you tear your enemies limb from limb and howl at the lonely moon?”

This isn’t the way he thought the conversation would go. He doesn’t expect her to be playful and teasing after he had been so vicious, but her transience is contagious and he is hopeless against it. So, Robb Stark, King of the North and the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, and Defender of the Realm, throws his head back and let’s out a wild howl. 

He expects her to look at him like he has gone mad and for a moment he fears that he has, but Myrcella Baratheon, the Southern Princess, the last lion, throws her head back and let’s out a howl of her own. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that it is not the cold that chills him when Grey Wind starts to howl as well, and before he knows it, all the wolves in Winterfell join him.


	9. Chapter 8

The next evening, Myrcella entered the Great Hall flanked on either side by Sansa and Shireen. It had been Sansa’s idea to have matching gowns made, and they were all swathed in light blue gowns with rich white fur trim. 

As they made their way through, they were stopped often by Northern Lords and the various men and women who called Winterfell home, and Myrcella marveled at how Shireen no longer held her hand as tightly as she once did. 

Sansa links her arm through hers, as Shireen holds her hand lightly, picking sweet treats off the tables as she passes, delighting in the freedom the North had given them. Myrcella sees Alys Karstark, the Northern beauty whose laughter had made the King smile in surprise, standing on the edge of a loud group of men. Not a few days earlier, it had been Myrcella who had stood on her own, not being welcomed by the Northern ladies. 

Sansa tightens her hold on her elbow, “Pay her no mind, Myrcella, she needn’t bother you.”

“She doesn’t bother me,” Myrcella lied, as she admired the flattering cut of the lady’s gown, “And she is a guest, is she not? Isn’t it our duty to make her feel welcome?”

Sansa shakes her, “How you are a Lannister I will never know. Lead the way, if you must.”

Myrcella can’t help but roll her eyes at her friend, as she leads her little coven over to the Northern girl. 

“Lady Alys, good evening,” Myrcella says kindly.

“Princess..es, good evening to you all,” Lady Alys says, sweeping into a rather awkward curtsey. 

“We were just admiring the cut of your gown, Lady Alys,” Myrcella says, though Sansa had been doing no such thing, “Tell me, did you make it yourself?”

“I did, princess, thank you,” the lady says, but seems not to want to pursue anything further. 

Myrcella meets Sansa gaze, who gives her an, ‘I told you so’ look, which Myrcella immediately shrugs off, releasing her arm from her friends.

She crosses to Lady Alys and hooks her arm through hers. For a moment it almost seems like Lady Alys will strike her, but the girl relaxes quickly as Myrcella guides her through the hall, Sansa and Shireen following behind. 

“Do you often come to Winterfell, my lady? Is it far from Karhold, forgive me, I am still quite unfamiliar with the Northern geography.”

“Aye, princess, it is many days ride from here, and for you in a litter it would be even longer,” the lady says, somewhat condescendingly. 

“I’ve never had much liking for litters, my lady, have you? I prefer the fresh air, plus…” she says leaning her head closer to the lady, as if taking her into great confidence, “I’m horribly impatient.”

To her surprise, Lady Alys laughed, and she could see now why it brought a smile to the King’s face. It softened her entire being and it made you feel special for earning it. 

“As am I, princess, I’m afraid. I nearly left my father at an inn about 100 miles away.”

“You are a braver woman than I, my lady, I would not dare cross your father thus,” Myrcella says conspiratorially. 

“I think at this point, he may forgive you, princess,” Lady Alys says, and there seems to be respect in her voice, “It is quite a feat to change my father’s mind once he has made it, one you have been unbelievably successful in.”

Myrcella smiled, thinking of how the same Lord who had once suggested her death, had only yesterday presented her with an apple to give her horse after he had heard the beast had a liking for them. 

“I think we can blame that on my ‘woman’s witchcraft’” Myrcella said jokingly. 

“Ah yes, I remember the first time Lord Umber accused me of that, I was seven and I…” 

***

“She looks beautiful this evening, wouldn’t you say, brother?” Bran asks them from their seats at the high table. 

“Indeed, she does,” Robb says, marveling at the creamy column of skin Myrcella’s updo had revealed.

“The grey suits her,” Bran says and Robb’s brows knit in confusion as he turns to look at his brother.

“Grey?” he asks stupidly.

“Of Lady Alys’ gown,” Bran says, a small smile threatening his lips.

Robb turns back to where he had been looking, and only then does he realize that Myrcella had been leading Lady Alys around the hall. Now that he looked at her, he could see that his brother spoke true. The grey gown fit her elegantly, and her loose hair and pale skin proved her a true Northern beauty. 

“And of course, the Princess Myrcella looks lovely as well, had you noticed?” Bran asks, the smile that had been threatening now wide. Robb only rolls his eyes. 

He watches as the two girls cross through the room. They are a tantalizing combination, the dark features of Lady Alys contrasting beautifully with Princess Myrcella’s bright ones, and they seem to draw all the light in the room. 

He wondered if Lady Alys noticed that the same Lords she had known since her birth, now turn from her to bow low to Myrcella, lingering over her hand when they kiss it. Or the way Myrcella bowed her head this way and that in acknowledgment of a guest too far away to greet. He wondered if Alys noticed the way the princess, a foreign girl from the most hated family in the Seven Kingdoms, presented the great Northern hall like it was her gift to give.

***

Myrcella has just sent Shireen to bed, the little girl had been riding on Grenn's shoulders the last she saw, when she is approached by Jon.

"Princess," he says with an exaggerated bow.

"My Lord Hand," she replies with a deep curtsy.

"Will you honor me with the next dance, little one?"

She opens her mouth to agree when a deep northern voice cuts in, "My apologies, Lord Hand, Princess Myrcella had promised the next dance to me."

Jon looks at Lord Gewan as though he may contradict him, but he glances briefly at the high table where the King sits with his younger brothers and only smirks, "Of course."

The song changes and before she can suggest he rescue Sansa from Lord Karstark, Lord Gewan has lead her to the center of the floor.

He looks awfully pleased with himself as he bows to her, so she cannot help but ask, "Is it wise? To lie to the Hand of the King, my lord?"

"No, princess, but I have never claimed to be a wise man. Though if you wish me to be one, I will read every book in the Citadel."

"And if I prefer fools?" She teases.

"Then I shall be your Florian."

"You are awfully accommodating, my lord" she says with a demure bow of her head.

"Rarely, princess. But in your case, if you prefer quiet men, then I shall join the Silent Sisters, and if you prefer loquacious men, then I shall be a poet, and if, in all your wisdom, you prefer short men, then princess, I will slouch."

"My lord, you flatter me too greatly, I fear I will mistake your intentions," she says reproachfully, surely he should not be speaking to her this way.

"The only way you could mistake them, princess, is to doubt them," he says as the dance draws them close. 

As a girl, this was all she dreamed of, a tall, gallant man to offer her his hand. They were well matched, his dark northern features the exact opposite of her sunny southern ones, he was of an ancient family, and a war hero. Her grandfather would not even have entertained the match, she knew, but her prospects are no longer what they once were.

"Princess..." he cuts into her thoughts as he spins her deftly, "When can we be alone again?"

"We can't, my lord. It isn't proper," she says averting his gaze.

He brings her hands up above her head, leaning in closer, "But we must, you have released a madness in me, princess. Take pity on your poor servant."

A madness he had said. Like an animal, a caged beast. Just like the King had said.

"The King would not approve," she says, perhaps a royal decree will make them both see reason.

"I would not imagine he would," he says, as if it is no matter to him.

"You would disobey you're king? That is treason, my lord,” she says as lightly as she can.

"Perhaps. But he did not issue the demand as a king, sweet princess, but as a man."

Her green eyes flick to his, desperate to discern his meaning, but it appears his are assessing her as well. She wonders if he noticed the way this simple statement had affected her more than his declaration.

“He is my guardian, my lord, it is only natural that he would be protective of me,” she says defensively.

"You are right, princess. There is nothing more natural than that. And as you say, he is our king. Whatever I can give to you, whatever I can be for you, alas, I can never be that,” he said as the dance ended.

He bowed deeply, kissing her hand and walked away. He did himself an injustice, this fine Northern Lord, he was wiser than he thought.

***

He was trying not to watch the princess spin gracefully in the arms of Lord Gewan, when Jon approached the high table, taking the vacant seat beside him. 

“This is getting out of hand,” Jon said.

Robb prepared to defend himself, “What is?”

“Lord Gewan, do you know he lied to me just now?” he says incredulously.

“Lied? About what?” Robb asks, his eyes scanning the great soldier for any signs of duplicity.

“He told me Princess Myrcella had promised him this dance, though I know they have not spoken this evening,” Jon says petulantly and Robb can’t help but smile.

“Love makes a man do crazy things,” he says.

“You know he will propose soon. He’ll ask for your permission any day now,” Jon says with a sigh.

“I know,” Robb says hollowly.

“And what will you say?” Jon asks him, turning to him as if he might search for the truth in his features.

“What should I say?” he asks, turning to his brother and closest advisor for help.

Jon looks from him as if he wants to say something, but then he looks at the dancing pair, and back at Robb, “He has earned a great prize, we may not be standing here if it wasn’t for him. But…”

“But?” Robb asks hopefully.

“She is a greater prize still.”

“Perhaps we should ask her what she thinks of it?”

“Now is your chance,” Jon says, gesturing to the lord bowing to the princess as the song ends.

Robb hops up, eager to take the chance, but says over his shoulder, “Ask our sister to dance, Lord Karstark has monopolized her for too long.” 

He is so eager to get to the princess, that he doesn’t notice the way his brother’s cheeks color, or the way he hops up, just as eager, to invite his sister to dance.

***

She is in search of Sansa, hoping to rescue her from Lord Karstark, when she feels a warm hand take hold of hers. 

“Princess,” Robb says, and he doesn’t bow but simply raises her fingers to his lips. 

“Your grace,” she says, dropping into a curtsey, blushing when he doesn’t let go of her.

“Will you dance with me?” 

“I’d be delighted.”

It is an odd coincidence that the song they had once danced to starts again as he leads her to the floor. This time she forces herself to keep her eyes on his as he starts to lead her.

“You remembered, princess,” he says quietly, though there is a small smile on his lips.

“It was not so long ago, your grace,” she says with a tilt of her head.

“And what did you say to me then, that my intentions were unclear?” he asks her as he draws her nearer, his hand cupping her head so he might dip her backwards.

“A turn of phrase, your grace,” she says, ignoring the way her breath hitches when his eyes fall to her neck. 

“And Lord Gewan’s intentions, are those clear?” he asks as he let’s her up, spinning her gently. 

“If he is to be believed, then yes.”

“Ah, so he has asked you then,” he says, and his tone is light but his gaze is not.

“He has made no offer, your grace, it would not be proper without first speaking to you,” she says, as he spins her once again.

“I thought we had been over this, princess, when it comes to you, propriety is but a distant notion,” he says, the dance forcing her backwards, as he stalks forward.

“Am I so disgraced, your grace?” she asks, as he dips her again.

“Disgraced? No, princess, not disgraced, never that,” he says as he spins her so that he can lead her side to side, her back to him. 

“Then?” she asks, daring herself to look up at him over her shoulder.

“You know perfectly well the effect you have on men, princess,” as he spins her, less gently then before, pulling her back to him. 

“And you, your grace? Have you not noticed the way women fall at your feet? And yet, there is no question of your honor.”

“An unfair fact of this world.”

“Your Lady Alys, she is charming,” she says, not wishing to discuss it further.

“Lady Alys is charming, but she is not mine.”

“She could be, if you wished it so.”

“As I said, she is not mine,” he says and he takes her by the waist and lifts her above his head. This was not a part of the dance, and if she could look anywhere but his eyes, she might see the way the whole hall had stopped to look at them.

“I lied, your grace,” she says as he sets her down, and she hates that her voice is shaky.

“You do not find her charming, then?” he asks with a smile, not affected by their proximity as she was.

“I lied when I said it was a turn of phrase. I do not understand your intentions, your grace,” she confesses, and her gaze hits the floor in shame as she drops into a deep curtsey.

He does not take her hand, instead he presses a finger lightly under her chin, drawing her back up until her gaze meets his once again, “You know, princess, sometimes, nor do I.”


	10. Chapter 9

“And it’s happened how many times?” Robb asked Sam in the council meeting.

“Twice, your grace, most likely Wildling attacks, but with the Night’s Watch’s rangers out beyond the wall, there is little the farmers can do.” 

“We cannot allow raiders on our land, Winter is coming and we will not survive it if our farms are pillaged. Jon, gather 20 men who can be ready to leave tomorrow who can stay to guard the land until the rangers return.”

“Yes, your grace, I’ll lead them, I’ve dealt with the Wildlings before, if they know the land is guarded they will not come again.” 

“I’ll join you,” Robb said, though in truth he did not relish the idea of camping in the cold for weeks, he didn’t feel it right to send his men on a mission he would not undertake himself. 

“This is no job for a King, your grace. You needn’t worry yourself,” Jon said. But he said it the way he used to tell him that they ‘didn’t need to go another round’ in the tiltyard, the way he said they ‘didn’t need to take that jump in the forest’. A war and a kingdom couldn’t change good-natured rivalry between brothers.

“As I said, gather 20 men and have them ready to leave in the morning. We depart at daybreak,” Robb said in his king voice, but when Jon smiled he couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“If that is all, I have some business for the council, your grace,” Lord Gewan says. 

Robb feels Jon’s gaze on him but he doesn’t dare look at him, “Yes, my lord, what is it?”

“It is the Princess Myrcella, your grace. I am sure you have all seen the affection I have for her. I ask the council’s blessing on offering her my hand in marriage.” 

“My lord… The princess has only been in our care for a short while, any decisions regarding her future will be made once we all have had more time to adjust.”

“More time…” Lord Gewan says nodding, as though it is the first time he has heard the phrase, “Forgive me, your grace, but that is a rather vague denotation.”

“Princess Myrcella is royalty, my lord, she is the last surviving Lannister, her marriage is a matter of state. And quite frankly, vagueness is my prerogative.”

“I can make her happy…” Lord Gewan said, and the way he said it implied that Robb could not. It was a desperate move, and Robb knew then that he really did love her. Only love could make such a loyal lord so impertinent in the face of his king.

“Perhaps my lord,” he said, a bit more gently, “But it is not to be. I agree though, it is time you take a wife. Have you considered…”

***

“He should not have done that,” Myrcella says to Jon as he escorts her to the Weirwood. 

He had just recounted the discussion in council and Myrcella could not believe Lord Gewan had challenged the King thus. 

“Perhaps, but I can’t blame him for fighting for you,” Jon said kindly. 

“A matter of state…” Myrcella says, rather glumly, “Do you know Jon, I had almost thought those days behind me.”

“How do you mean?” Jon asks as he steadies her arm as they walk over a patch of ice. 

“I was born to be married off for the advancement of my family. It was my only purpose from the moment I drew breath. It is like that for all women of course, but it was amplified, being a princess. There was a time when my father entertained the idea of a marriage to a Wise Master of Astapor. Can you imagine Jon, a slaver for a husband? Then my Uncle Tyrion arranged my marriage to sweet Trystane, a prince in his own right. I thought then that it all might be alright. I visited him once, before coming to Winterfell when I was eleven, and he taught me to play cyvasse and we swam in the water gardens and I thought that perhaps being a princess wouldn’t be so bad if I was his princess. But then he died, murdered along with my poor brother Tommen only two years later and the game began again. Joffrey threatened to marry me to a Dothraki horse lord and Ramsay Snow, even Balon Greyjoy. When brave King Robb put a sword through his heart, I thought, that perhaps, my duty to the state was over. Who would want a disgraced Lannister princess after all?”

“A great many men, I’m afraid, princess,” Jon said, and she could tell he was truly sorry, even though she was luckier than most, and a good deal better off than she might have been. 

They got to the Wierwood and it was like the world stopped. The snow fell silently and the great tree with its crying eyes and red leaves stood like a testament to time itself. 

“It is just like I remembered,” she says, a look of wonder on her face, “Do you know we could come back a hundred years from now and it would probably be just the same.”

“I know, princess,” he says, and his eyes show the fervor of the faithful, “It is as though they have conquered transience, as though they are manipulating the world from within, while they remain ever unchanged.”

Myrcella thought about something her mother had said once, something about the Gods not having mercy, how she had said it with such disdain, while his sentiment, so similar, was said with such respect.

“Perhaps I should learn from them, then. Do not give my marriage another thought. I shall do my duty happily, I shall conquer transience, whatever comes.”

“I have no doubt, princess, but know this, the King is not Joffrey. I don’t think matters of state will be given a second thought if your happiness is at stake.”

“He is a gracious King, no one knows that more than I,” she said earnestly. 

“A fool though, do you know he has insisted on joining the retinue going to guard the farmlands?”

“You say, as if you didn’t manipulate him to that very outcome,” she says, catching him out. 

“You wound me, princess. You also know me surprisingly well, I shall have to be careful to stay on your good side.”

“You will indeed. Will you be in any danger?,” she asks, sudden fear striking her at the thought of them fighting the legendary Wildlings. 

“Do not fear, princess. We have fought worse than a few pillagers.” 

“Make sure that you speak with Sansa before you go,” she says, and ignores the blush that rises on his cheeks.

“Sansa? Any particular reason?” he asks, and it sounds as though he has forced the lightness into his tone.

Because she loves you, she wanted to say, but for a reason Myrcella couldn’t quite discern, she felt like it might be a betrayal to Sansa to do so.

“The last time you went North she didn’t see you or anyone else in her family for four years. Just make sure she knows you’re coming back.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but he only nods, repeatedly, as though he’s trying to reassure himself of something. He looks so broken, her brave protector, that she can’t help but draw him to her, resting her head against his chest. His chin rests on her head as his arms come around her, and she isn’t really sure who is comforting who. 

They stand there for a long time in the ancient wood, and whether it was the stoicism of the trees, the comfort of the falling snow, or the great Northern soldier who held her so gently, that was the day that Myrcella Baratheon, Southern princess of the Seven Kingdoms, started praying to the old gods.

*** 

He had just left Sansa in her room, his little sister had crumbled when he told her he was leaving, and he had held her until her tears stopped, murmuring promises of return all the while. 

Bran and Rickon had been less upset by it. Bran had only nodded, telling him to bring Summer along, and Rickon had asked if he could go to. Robb had charged him with the important task of guarding the Princess Myrcella instead, and had smiled when Rickon had suggested that maybe he guard the Princess Shireen too.

Robb made his way down the long corridor to the Princess Myrcella’s room. He had never visited her there, but it was the same chamber she had stayed in as a child, and he had chosen it because of strength of the hot spring it was built over, it was the warmest room in the castle. 

He shouldn’t be nervous, but he was as he knocked on her door. He wasn’t sure how she would take the news that he had refused Lord Gewan’s offer of marriage for her, and he wasn’t sure how he would take her reaction.

“Come in,” he heard her call so he opened the door.

She must have been expecting her handmaid, because she doesn’t rise from her chair by the fire. When she sees him her eyes get wide and she moves to rise.

“Please, princess, stay seated, I do not wish to disturb you.”

“You could never, your grace, would you like to?” she asks, gesturing to the chair opposite of her.

“Thank you, princess, ah, I was wondering where the wolves were,” he says as he sits down in front of the fire, gesturing to Ghost and Grey Wind who had curled up by her side, Grey Wind’s head resting on her feet.

“I believe Jon called them his deputies,” she says with a smile.

“A far lovelier task than the one they have coming,” he says, alluding to the weeks long mission they will be going on in the morning.

“Yes your grace, how can we deny them this comfort while they have it?” she asks with a smile, looking fondly down at the beasts.

“Princess, I wanted to talk to you about Lord Gewan,” he says, unsure of how to begin.

“You needn’t explain, your grace, it is at your discretion who I marry,” she says, and he realizes that Jon must have already told her what transpire. He searched her face for signs of disappointment, but she only smiled contentedly as the fire crackled.

“I suppose, but you have to know that I wish for you to have a say in it. If you truly wish to marry him, I promise you I’ll consider it,” he says, and he tries to hide the struggle it is for him to get the words out.

“He is a kind man, your grace, but no, you need not consider it. Would you be so kind though, as to tell me why you refused him?” she asks, her otherworldly green eyes flicking up to search his own.

“I did not think him a suitable match for you,” he says, not a lie, but not the truth either, “He is a good man, I don’t deny it, but you…” are beautiful, and kind, and poised, and strong, and regal in every sense of the word, he thought, “are a princess. I will not marry you to someone below your station.”

“Then I am to leave Westoros?” she asks calmly, curiously.

“Leave Westoros? No! Why would you leave Westoros?” he asked horrified at the thought.

She looks at him sympathetically, as though it is he who might need comfort, “You said you would not marry me below my station, I am sorry your grace, I just assumed… there is not an abundance of princes in Westoros,” she said. 

Of course, he thought, her station. She didn’t realize that she possessed more power than a name, more power than a title, that she had converted men who hated her into ones who would gladly die to protect her. She didn’t realize that it had nothing to do with who she was, but what she was. She didn’t realize that she could be a no-named bastard and most men would still be unworthy of her.

“You will not leave Westoros unless you wish it, princess, and I promise, I will find you someone worthy of you,” he vowed.

He is surprised when a sad smile crosses her lips, “There was one night, after Sansa’s engagement to Joffrey had been broken, we lay awake all night, back to back, hands clasped, daggers on either side of us, and she told me of her life before everything went so horribly wrong. She told me, that once, your father told her that when she was old enough, he’d make her a match with someone who was worthy of her. Someone brave, gentle, and strong. Please, your grace, do not trouble yourself with my future, just give her the future your father promised her and I will consider myself blessed indeed.”

The tears that came to his eyes at her words were unwelcome, as he swallowed the bile in his throat thinking of the two sweetest girls in the world, prepared to guard one another at knife point, speaking of gentler days.

He was about to say something but Jon came rushing into the room. “It’s happened again, we’ve just had a raven. Robb, its not like we thought, there are hundreds of them, we have to leave now or they will be here by dawn.”

The wolves had risen at the sound of his voice and Robb and Myrcella had too.

“We’ll need more men, two hundred at least, ready the horses and I will find Lord Karstark and Lord Gewan, we’ll need their reserves. Grenn will stay here to guard the castle should any make their way through. We’re to leave within the hour,” Robb said and Jon only nodded, rushing out, Ghost close behind. 

Time slows the way it always does before a battle. He gives into it for a moment, it had saved his life more than once, giving him the time to think through all the possibilities. 

He looks up to see Myrcella frozen, and not wanting to scare her he takes her hand in his, raising it to his lips, “Princess, I’ll take my leave.”

He crosses to the doorway when he hears it for the first time in over four years, “Robb!”

It is his name on her lips rather than her tone that makes him turn, “Myrcella?” he asks, walking closer to her. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asks, and he had never heard her voice shake before, not even when his Lords had casually suggested her execution.

“Of course I will come back,” he says, “I promise,”

She only nods, but a single tear escapes her eye, and standing there in the firelight, she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he is driven mad by the sweet victory of her concern for him.

“Forgive me, princess,” he says defeatedly.

Then he crosses the last distance to her and takes her face in his hands, raising her lips to his. He holds her a bit too tightly, lingers a little bit too long, just in case he is unable to keep his promise to her.


	11. Chapter 10

The days passed slowly without the King and his men. The great hall, normally so full of life and laughter and dancing was somber, though still nearly full. 

Myrcella and Sam did their best to rally all of the Stark children, coming up with scavenger hunts and snowball fights, but Bran, acting as Regent in the King's absence, was reminded of the many years of the war when he had been responsible for the castle and all of its people, Rickon had grown used to his big brothers strong arms carrying him to bed, swinging him between them, and Sansa, well nothing good had ever come from her being separated from the two men who loved her most. Even Princess Shireen was quieter than usual, retreating to the early days where she was Myrcella's shadow, holding tightly to her hand wherever they went. 

Myrcella put on a brave face for all of them. She convinced the cooks to teach them to bake pies, and hadn't hesitated chucking flour in Bran's face, which started a food fight that took days to clean (of course it was the royal children who cleaned it). She took over Rickon and Shireen's lessons from the Maester, invoking Sam and even Grenn's help as they acted out scenes from history. She brought in a dancing instructor for her and Sansa and the girls spent hours in the afternoon learning dances from all over the known world. 

But Myrcella could not put on a brave face for herself. She spent hours in the Godswood on her knees. She wouldn't even let a guard accompany her, so Shaggydog took to following her there, only he would not mind the chill as the hours passed. 

She prayed for a victory, for Jon's safe return, for a short winter, for health and happiness to all those she loved. But all of that took all of ten minutes. Every minute afterwards she spent in solemn prayer for the king. That he would not catch a cold on the road, or suffer a wound, that he would not forget their kiss, nor his promises to her. Most of all, she prayed for the simplest things of all, that he would live and that he would return, whether it was to her or not. 

Shireen would always have a bath arranged for her when she returned, even though Myrcella was her guardian and not the other way around. The little girl would sit by her side as the warm water thawed her skin and they'd speak of Tommen and her Onion Knight and how the men would return soon and all would be well. 

At night, Myrcella would lie in bed, often in between Sansa and Shireen and would forbid the tears that threatened. The one thing she never feared was a Wildling attack at Winterfell, even when her mind examined the very worst possibilities of what was to come, she knew that no matter what the King would find a way to protect his family, and his people, and her. 

She thought of Lord Gewan and his rejected proposal. When Jon had first told her, she had been surprised that she wasn't disappointed. He had made her laugh and treated her kindly and he had kissed her, her first kiss. At the time, she had thought it was because of their last conversation during their dance when he had promised to be whatever kind of man she wanted. She had realized then that the kind of man she wanted wouldn't need to change. She didn't want a servant, like he had called himself, she wanted a husband who was sure of her and his love and himself.

But then the King had kissed her, and she knew that Lord Gewan could have been perfect and it would not have mattered. The King, Robb, had kissed her and she had felt like she could laugh and weep all at once. She felt in that moment that gravity held no sway over her, and only Robb tethered her to the earth, to him. 

She was not a fool, she knew there was affection there. It took more than honor to inspire the kindness he had shown her. But not even her hidden dreams had she thought he might share the desires she did. When he spoke of a caged beast within his heart she had never imagined that she might be the one to release it. 

She thought of it often, the conversation they’d been having right before he left. She remembered laying in the dark with Sansa, as her dearest friend relayed one of the last conversations she had with her father about everything he hoped to give her. She wondered if he had been thinking of his own sons when he said it, for he had raised not one but two men to be brave and gentle and strong. A wonder and an injustice, Myrcella thought, that the only two men worthy of Sansa were the ones who couldn’t have her.

***

It had been a bloodbath, though thankfully not on their side. The wildlings had come in full force, nearly three hundred strong and vicious. But they had been erratic, undisciplined, used to fighting amongst themselves, and the regimented soldiers of the North picked them off one by one.

They had lost twenty good, strong, loyal Northmen, but they had slaughtered the wildlings to the man. Ghost, Grey Wind and Summer alone had taken out an entire faction, and Robb knew that Sansa would order them right into the bath, probably muttering something lovingly about them being savages. He and Jon were just as bloodied, and he knew his sister wouldn't hesitate to order them as well. After four years in one war camp or another, he looked forward to her sisterly pestering.

They had left twenty men, the original plan, to keep the peace until the Nights Watch returned. Jon had convinced him they could do more good back at Winterfell, though they both regretted leaving their men. Lord Gewan had offered to lead them and Robb had taken it as his acceptance of Robb's refusal. They had parted with a clap on the back and laughter and promises of an ale-filled night to come.

They were an hour from Winterfell when Jon rode to his side.

“What do you think they are making for dinner tonight?” Jon asked him. It was a game they had played every night through the war, it kept the memory of home alive even when the cold bit their fingers and hunger scratched their stomachs.

“Beef stew, with potatoes and carrots and –“

“Onions and bacon. With bread –“

“Burned black and sweet butter and –“

“Baked apples and cream for dessert.”

This was only the second time they had played it when they knew they would be tasting whatever dinner at the castle was, and their stomachs grumbled and their hearts soared as they spurred their horses on.

“Did the Lady Alys accept Lord Gewan’s proposal?” Jon asks him.

“He hadn’t proposed yet… I wanted to speak with Lord Karstark first, so that he doesn’t think it a snub. I know he hoped I’d take his daughter as a wife.”

“Wait, what?! No way…” Jon teased and Robb only grinned. 

“Subtle, though it was…” Robb says with a roll of his eyes, “She’d make a wonderful wife for a Northern Lord but…” 

“She lacks a certain…inherent regalness one might hope for in a queen?”

“Yes…”

“If only there was a princess somewhere of marriageable age…”

“Jon…”

“And if only she had a face the poets muse about, and a mind as sharp as a needle, and a heart that could melt the Northern snows…”

“Someone you had in mind, brother?”

For a moment, Jon almost looks caught out, but then he laughs and says, “Of course not, my king, but what a sight she would be to behold.”

***

The days passed and still the men did not return. They had not had word of them since they left, and the whole castle felt the absence of their King and his men. 

With Bran acting as regent in the King’s absence, Sam serving as Hand, they had asked Sansa and Myrcella to attend council and to hear the people’s grievances with them. It was startling to see Bran sitting in the King’s seat, more startling still when she remembered that Robb had only been a few years older than him when he had been crowned. She thought of Joffrey, young and malignant and maniacal, and wondered at what a contrast this solemn little prince was. Bran had a knack for diplomacy and his deep knowledge of the land lent itself to these sessions. 

They had just ended, a short day with just a simple land dispute, and Sansa lead Myrcella out of the chamber in search of Princess Shireen and Prince Rickon. Robb had appointed Sansa to be Rickon’s guardian, and the two girls relished in the hours they spent with the children, lost in a world of play and laughter.

They walked through the castle arm and arm towards the library, knowing that at this hour, the two children would be seated in one of the large chairs, their heads bent over a book while Shaggydog tried to convince Shireen to pet him instead.

As they suspected, the prince and princess held a large tome on both their laps, and their temples touched as they both read from it.

“What are you reading, sweetlings?” Sansa asked and the two hardly looked up. 

“A book,” Rickon said and Myrcella fought the urge to smile, knowing that after years without a mother, Sansa was desperately trying to teach Rickon courtly manners.

“Have you been outside today?” Myrcella asked, trying a different approach.

“It’s too dark out,” Shireen said, noting the way the sun was almost setting even though dinner wouldn’t be for at least an hour.

“Well that’s what lanterns are for, sweetling,” Myrcella said as she crossed the room, picking the book out of their laps.

“Hey!” they said in unison, and only then did she see that they were holding hands. 

She looked back at Sansa then at their hands meaningfully and she saw Sansa bite her inner cheek to keep from squealing. 

“Come on, darlings, we can’t have you cooped up in here all day. Where shall we go, the Godswood? The Glass Gardens? Don’t you think Shaggydog wants a walk?” Sansa asked, knowing that neither of them would deny the wolf. 

Rickon was about to respond when they all heard the large gate being open. Sansa and Myrcella acted no more dignified than the children when they all raced to the window. 

“Riders! Princesses they’re back, they’re back!” he said as he raced out the door, Sansa and Shireen close behind.

***

Riding back into Winterfell felt just as incredible as it had the first time, better even, knowing his family was there waiting for him. It was dark, though they would not yet have been called to dinner, and Jon and he dismounted as soon as they were within the castle’s walls. 

He heard them before he saw them, Sansa and Rickon racing into the yard. His little brother leapt, wild and sure, into his arms and he couldn’t help but toss him into the air, delighting in the little boy’s shrieks. He turned to see Jon holding Sansa, her face cradled in his neck as he rocked her, whispering something to her as she nodded. 

Princess Shireen came running into view, but as though remembering something, she fell into a deep curtsey, “Seven blessings to you, your grace,” she said sweetly.

“Is that any way to greet your king, princess?” he asks her, his hands on his hips as Rickon goes to greet Jon. 

The little girl looks shamefaced so he let’s himself smile, “I road hundreds of miles for one of your legendary hugs, have I not earned it, princess?”

Her heartbreaking smile warmed his heart as she jumped, just as free and sure into his arms. He was surprised to feel the same sensation holding her as he did Rickon, he hadn’t realized how fiercely he had grown to love the little princess. 

“I think Princess Myrcella missed you, your grace,” she whispers in his ear.

“Is that so, princess?” he asks as his eyes search the courtyard for the missing one.

“She wouldn’t say so, but she spent hours in the Godswood praying… I tried to make her take gloves but she never listens…” she says, as though long suffering. 

“That’s my girl, you just leave her to me alright? She’ll never leave the castle without gloves again, I promise. And what do we say about King’s promises?”

“They are always kept,” she says, and to his delight she kisses his cheek before dropping to the ground and running to Jon. 

It is Sansa who is in his arms next, and he holds his eldest sibling to him fiercely, assuring her that they are home, that they are safe, and that no matter what they will always return to her.

***

It takes all of her strength to stay in the library as Sansa and the children run out to the courtyard to greet the returning soldiers. But she knows that if he has returned, he deserves time to reunite with his siblings, and if the gods were cruel and he had not returned, she wanted to delay that knowledge for as long as possible. 

When she could wait no longer, she turns to go to the courtyard, but she hears footsteps on the stairs, heavy boots taking them two at a time, and before she knows it, he is there, he is alive and he is right in front of her. 

She stares at him for a long moment before she drops into a curtsey, her eyes downcast though it pains her to remove her gaze from the visage she’d imagined every night since he left. 

“Rise, princess, please. I… did not see you in the courtyard,” he says, although it is obvious. 

“No, your grace, I wanted you and your family to greet one another in privacy,” she says, the measured tone a struggle. 

“Sansa did not think we would return,” he says, and it is the pain in his voice that makes her look up, “Did you doubt it?” he asks, though she thinks he really means to ask: Did you doubt me?

“Not for a moment, your grace, you promised me you would return,” she says, “But that is not the only promise you made me, you promised that one day I would know that a King’s word would always be kept. You have fulfilled two oaths today, and I give you my thanks,” she says with a small bow of her head. 

“Are you well, princess?” he asks her formally and she can’t help the giggle that erupts from her mouth. 

“You have just returned from a week’s long journey, covered in blood, yet you ask me if I am well, your grace?” she asks, not being able to resist teasing him. 

“I do, princess,” he says, earnestly and her breath hitches.

“I am now, your grace,” she says, thinking of the nights she lay awake in bed, wondering if he had been wounded, or if he was hungry, or cold, or lonely, “Now that I see you are well.” 

“I am, princess, but I am tired,” he says with a grimace.

“Of course, your grace,” she says with a small curtsey, “As you would be. I would not detain you further.”

“No, princess… I am tired of calling you princess, when I wish to call you Myrcella. Tired of you greeting me with a curtsey, when I wish to hold you in my arms. Tired of pretending like I have not missed you every second I have been away, when I have hardly thought of anything else,” he said, as though it is breaking his body to do so, yet he makes no move towards her.

She thinks of the last time, what she’d said that had broken through the formality, broken through the courtesy.

“Robb…” she let’s out in a breath, and the next moment she is in his arms. It doesn’t matter that he is still wearing his armor, that he is covered in blood and soot, that she is an unwed princess who should not be alone with a man, let alone a king. When he lowers his lips to hers, nothing else matters at all. 

The last time had been too rushed, too panicked for her to be able to truly savor it, but they have nothing but time now and she takes full advantage. She holds his strong arms and when his tongue pushes against her lips, she opens her mouth willingly. It is a dizzying sensation, when his touches hers, and she cannot resist leaning further into him. When she feels him groan a shot of pleasure, one she’d never felt before, courses through her body, and she feels herself leaning into him for support. He responds tenfold, his strong arms encircling her waist, lifting her to him so that her feet hardly touch the floor. 

When they pull apart, to her horror, he laughs at her. She bows her head in shame, but he tucks a finger under her chin and raising it, “You must go straight to your room, princess, or the whole castle will know what I’ve done to you,” he says, his finger stroking the bridge of her nose. He turns his finger to her and she can see that the blood and soot had rubbed off on her face, “Worse yet, they may think I captured a Wildling princess,” he says, rubbing his nose against hers.

“Perhaps you have, your grace,” she says lightly, looping her arms around his neck, not caring that her gown is already ruined, “Perhaps I will corrupt you with my savage ways…” 

His forehead falls against hers, “I fear not, princess,” his hands coming up to cup her cheeks, “but if it were so, until my last breath I would ask you to corrupt me again.” 

Happily, she obliges, raising her lips back to his and relishing in the sweetness of kept promises.


	12. Chapter 12

Robb walked purposefully to the Godswood, the autumn snows swirling around him. He had been told he could find her here at this hour, by the Princess Shireen, and Sansa, and a servant or two. Apparently the Southern Princess had become rather devout during her time in the North.

He walked into the clearing, startled as always by the beauty of it, the vibrant red leaves and the crying gods, the tiny pond, frozen now, and her. She wore a fur hat that Jon had given her one frigid day, a warm cream overcoat that matched Sansa’s, and to his delight, the calf-skin gloves he’d had made for her after Princess Shireen had shared her worries. The Starks surrounded her completely, claiming her as one of their own in their desperation to keep her warm and safe. 

She knelt in front of the Heart Tree, and though he couldn’t see her face, he knew her eyes were closed, her nose practically at its trunk. He wondered what she prayed for, if her prayers mirrored his own. He took a step closer and was surprised when Grey Wind’s head popped up from where he rested until he was sitting, his chest puffed out. Robb smirked, and moved closer, surprised when a low rumble erupted from his wolf. He had never been on the receiving end of one of Grey Wind’s warnings and he might have laughed had it not been so frightening. 

Myrcella turned around at the sound, her eyes glazed in prayer, blinking until she registered that it was him. 

“You’ve stolen my wolf, princess,” he says in greeting. 

“Only borrowed, your grace, it appears at the moment, he is my guardian rather than your wolf,” she says, her slender arms wrapping around Grey Wind as she ducked her head into his fur nuzzling him in thanks. The damned wolf practically smirked at him. 

“But why should you need a guardian, if I am here?” he asked her, moving closer to her as she rose. 

“Perhaps that is why I need a guardian, perhaps you mean me harm,” she says her eyes on his, trapped, as he stalked her like prey.

“Harm? I could never mean you harm, princess,” he says, his tone light, his meaning earnest.

“Well then perhaps you could do me harm, your grace, whether you intended to or not,” she says, and her tone is less light than his.

“What kind of harm could I do you?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

She smiles at him grimly, “You once warned me of a beast within you, your grace, that growled and rage more than other men.”

“Oh but he is caged now, princess,” he says, but as he nears her he knows it is a lie, his control is tenuous at best when he sees the blush of her cheeks and the attentions her teeth pay to her bottom lip. 

“Even if it were true,” she says, her eyes narrowing as though she doesn’t quite believe him, “There are others harms that can befall a girl, harms that threaten me now, with you so near.” 

“Harms, tell me of these harms,” he says as he takes her hand in his. He plans to raise the back of it to his lips but as he draws it closer a sliver of the underside of her wrist appears between her sleeve and her glove, and it is there he kisses. He feels her pulse quicken under his lips, hears the sigh that escapes her lips and he feels the very blue of his eyes darken. 

“My reputation,” she says, her voice shaky, and when he looks at her he sees that her eyes are closed. He kisses the same spot again, but it is his breath that hitches now when her slender gloved fingers rest on her cheek. She opens her eyes at the sound and he sees the same darkness reflected in her otherworldly green eyes, “My heart.”

“You have just named two of the most sacred things in my world, princess,” he says truthfully.

“Yet still they are risked if….” She says trailing off as though thinking better of it.

“If what, princess? If my purpose is not to wed you under this very tree, as I dreamed to when you were a princess of twelve, too great a prize for the son of a Northern Lord? If I don’t plan to make you my Queen, so that my people may share the benefit of this quick mind,” he says, trailing his index finger across her smooth forehead, “the music of these lips,” he says, the same finger grazing the bottom lip that bewitched her teeth so, “the kindness of this heart,” he says letting it trail down so it hovered on her chest.

“Yes, your grace, I could be harmed indeed if that was not your purpose,” she says, though there is a smile threatening her lips now.

“Marry me, my darling girl,” he says, his forehead resting against hers.

“As you command, my King,” she says and he nearly protests, not wanting her to feel as though she does not have a choice, but she pulls her face away from his, and there are tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips and she says, “As you wish, my Robb, as I want, my only love.”

He kisses her then, and he wonders if the Gods mind that she has his full devotion now. Her lips yield to his and he brings her closer, wrapping his cloak around them both so that he may hold her tighter, keep her warmer. 

It is a surprise, an unpleasant one, when she pulls away abruptly.

“The Lords, Robb,” she says, sudden fear in her voice.

“What about them, my love,” he says, burrowing into her neck, having no patience for politics when her creamy column is begging to be kissed. 

“Will they accept me? It was not long ago that they called for my head.” 

He can’t help but chuckle against her, but then he faces her, knowing it is important that she is assured of this, “They have been nearly demanding it ever since we left the Red Keep, ever since you raised your dagger against my brother. You are the Queen of their choice, as you are the wife of mine.”

***

“I’m sorry that I won’t be able to marry you, but it’s for the best.” 

The sentence was said so earnestly that she had to actively stop herself from giggling at Rickon. 

“I think so, sweetling, will you accept me as a sister instead?” Myrcella asks, drawing him to her lap. 

“Will you still read to me?” he asks her. 

“Of course, sweetling,” she promises, burying her face at the nape of his neck and smelling his little boy smell. 

“Will you still take care of me when I’m sick?” he says, and she knew he was thinking of the fever he had only a week ago. 

“I promise, I will,” she says.

“Then I will be a good brother to you,” he says solemnly as he burrows into her. 

They sit there for a long while and then he says, “And I’ll still protect you now and always, I swear this by the old gods and the new.” 

“I know you will, sweetling,” she says, thinking how proud Ned would be of these sons of his. 

***

“I have to beg your forgiveness, princess,” he said as he joined her by the fire. 

“Then I shall give it freely, your grace, it does not befit a King to beg” she said sweetly, stroking Shaggdog’s head as the wolf hummed happily. 

He went to them both, kneeling in front of her, scratching the wolf’s head. 

“I have asked your cousin, the princess Myrcella, to marry me,” he says. 

“Why would I need to forgive you for that? Do you mean because you waited so long?” she asks mischievously and he can’t help but smile.

“No, princess, I thought I should have asked your permission first. You are her guardian after all, are you not?” he asked her, his voice equally teasing. But as he thought of the way Shireen worried about her older cousin freezing in the Godswood, the way he’d seen her order the bath to be warm but not hot so as not to shock her skin, the way he’d watched her intercept her as a man lingered too long at her side, he knew he was only half kidding. 

“That’s right,” she said, adopting a tone of formality, “So, your grace, do you have something to ask me?”

“Yes, Princess I do. Will you grant me the honor of taking your cousin, the Princess Myrcella as a wife?” he asks, taking her little hands in his. 

“Will you be kind to her?”

“Always.”

“Will you tell her she’s beautiful? Because she is, you know.”

“Every day.”

“Will you watch out for her? She can be awfully careless with her own comfort.”

“I will carry her around in a feather bed if that is what it takes to get your blessing.”

“Very well then. You may take her as a wife. Your grace?”

“Yes, little one?”

“Does this mean… that I’d be a part of your family?” 

“It does, princess. Would you like that?”

“Yes…” she says as though it’s a confession, “I’ve always wanted to be a Stark.”

He thought of the way Rickon always scanned a room for the sight of her shiny brown hair, the way Shaggydog slept in her bed more often than not, the way she lit up when Rickon asked her to dance, and he wanted to tell her that someday, if she really wanted, she would be.

***

Myrcella walked the long hall to Sansa’s room, as the two were going to the Glass Gardens to pick out the flowers for the wedding feast, which would be happening in three short days. Word had spread quickly that the King had found a wife, and the Kingdom was impatient for them to be wedded and bedded, she had been told rather bluntly by Grenn the night before. 

Lords had arrived from all over the North, only a few, the Reeds, the Cerwyns, who were still to come. The castle had been overrun by them, and the rooms were full of laughter and warmth and stories of days gone by. 

She opened the door, not bothering to knock, and was surprised to see Jon and Sansa spring apart. 

“I-I’m sorry…I came to collect you for the Glass Gardens, but I can go on my own…” she says nervously.

“No.” Sansa says firmly, and Myrcella can hear the tears in her voice as easily as she sees them on her cheeks, “There’s nothing further to be said.” 

Myrcella casts a bewildered glance in Jon’s direction, but he looks as though he’s seen a ghost, so she gathers Sansa’s cloak and follows her out of the room. 

They don’t talk for a long while, as they make their way in the snow, their hands in the same pocket of Myrcella’s cloak, keeping one another warm and steady. 

“Sansa… did you have another nightmare?” Myrcella asks gently. It was not rare for screams to be heard from her chamber in the middle of the night. Then her brothers and all of their wolves would rush to her side, eager to chase away the demons. The boys would all walk stiffly the next day, even little Rickon, and she knew it was because they had slept in a chair or on the floor of their sister’s room. 

“Yes, it’s called my life,” Sansa says dramatically and Myrcella bites her cheek so as not to smile. She is relieved when Sansa giggles at herself and she nudges her hip against her to continue. “Apparently, it has been suggested, that your wedding would be a good opportunity for me to entertain suitors.” 

“Is that so? And who had the nerve to suggest this?” Myrcella asks, praying that it was not the King or the Hand. 

“Lord Umber. Apparently an unmarried woman is dangerous,” Sansa says rolling her eyes. 

“I would love to know what woman slighted him, by the gods we’re all paying for her sins aren’t we?” Myrcella asks in frustration. 

“Apparently the others agreed,” Sansa says solemnly.

“Not your brothers?” Myrcella asks, wondering which one of them would get a lashing first. 

“Not exactly, no… but they need to be seen considering it… for the good of the family.” 

Of course, Myrcella thought. Nothing kept a man loyal quite like the possibility of a beautiful princess for a wife. 

“Can I ask you the rattiest question of all?” Myrcella asks, leaning her head on her shoulder. 

“By all means…”

“Don’t you think you might want to? Get married some day I mean.”

“I might…if I thought it might bring me joy but…”

“But?”

“But I know that is impossible.”

“And why should it be impossible? You have made the entire North fall in love with you. Surely there must be an eligible bachelor that would die for their opportunity to worship you…” Myrcella says and sees her friend color, “Ah so there is one already, I believe? Why not put his name forward?”

“Because some things cannot be,” Sansa says, sadly, “Because some things should not be.” 

There was something to the way she said it, perhaps the cadence of her tone, that made Myrcella think she was repeating something that been said to her. She thought of the way she’d found her just now, in tears, too close to her elder half-brother. She thought of the whispers about her mother and her handsome uncle, the way he’d pull her to him gently, when her husband’s touch was always rough. She thought of the way Jon’s body would curve towards Sansa, almost as though it were tied by strings, whenever any mention of the past was brought up.

“There are a great many things that have happened to you that should not have been. I don’t think, Sansa, that falling in love is one of them,” she says sadly, and rests her cheek atop Sansa’s head, which has fallen to her shoulder as they trudge on.


	13. Chapter 12

He couldn’t believe that tomorrow night Myrcella would be his wife. He watched her as she was lead through the great hall, being stopped by his men and women, soon to be hers, as Jon kept a watchful eye on her, always close by in case someone lingered too long. 

His little sister came next to him, watching the scene before them with a sigh. 

“Did you ever think we’d be here, brother?” she asked him. 

He isn’t sure if he means at the eve of his wedding to the Myrcella Baratheon, or back home, amongst their subjects, but the answer is still the same. 

“No, I never dreamed we’d be here.” 

“You’ve chosen well, Robb. She was born to be a Queen, but more importantly, she’ll make you happy.” She says, then smiles as she watches Myrcella clap excitedly at something Sam has said, “She won’t be able to help it.” 

“We wouldn’t be here without you, Sansa… you’re the one who made this possible. I never could have let myself love her, had it not been for you.”

“Well I wouldn’t have survived without her, or you, so it was the least I could do,” she says, moving closer to him, signaling to all of her suitors littered throughout the great hall that she was not to be disturbed.

“She told me what father said to you. That he wanted to find you someone brave, gentle, and strong. If you ever find someone like that, no matter who it is, we will make it work. You are not diplomacy, you are not an offering. You are my sister, and I will not lose you to anyone unworthy. Expectations be damned.” He said, quoting Jon from months ago.

“You should be careful with your promises, brother,” Sansa says, her eyes on Myrcella and Jon as he foregoes etiquette and swings an arm around her, pulling her to him so he can whisper something in her ear that makes her laugh. 

Robb follows her line of vision, watches the way his brother stands by his fiancé ready to defend her with his life, the way he treats her so tenderly, and the way she relies on his steadfastness. “I am careful with them, Sansa, and I promise it anyway.”

***

It has been a wonderful night. She had been greeted by Lords and commonfolk alike, and they had all shared their happiness at the prospect of her being their Queen. It was customary not to have much contact with her fiancé, but she had felt Robb’s gaze on her and it had filled her with a strength and calm she didn’t know she possessed.

This was also aided by Jon’s constant presence. He had told it true, those months ago, he was as good and strong as a sworn shield could be, and they shared a camaraderie she hadn’t had with a boy since her brother Tommen died. 

She had just left Lord Karstark, the old man only a little chillier to her now that she had ruined his daughter’s hope of being Queen, and was going to go get Shireen to tuck her into a bed, knowing that tomorrow she would not have the chance and not wanting to disrupt their routine too greatly. 

“Princess,” he says, his voice low and full of something that makes her shiver. 

“We are to wed tomorrow, your grace, perhaps it is time you start calling me Myrcella more often?” she says with a light smile. 

He was breaking all etiquette by approaching her thus, not that she was surprised, he never really was one for etiquette. 

“I’ve been told, princess, that when you really like me you’ll allow me to call you Ella. When should I expect this, on our first anniversary? Our fifth?” he says, a glimmer in his eyes.

“Well I don’t know, your grace, what do you intend to do to make me like you?” she asks him straight-faced.

“Well, princess,” he says, just as straight-faced, but taking her hand, “I plan to honor you, every day,” he says kissing her knuckles, “and worship you, every night,” he says, his ocean blue eyes meeting hers as he turns her hand so he might kiss that spot of wrist that seemed to fascinate him so. 

“Your grace…” Myrcella says, a deep blush on her cheeks. 

“Have I embarrassed you, princess?” he says, the smile finally on his lips. 

“Are you surprised, your grace? Are you not the one who has been bemoaning my innocence since we’ve met?” she teases.

“Bemoaning? Never. Cherishing. Defending. Coveting. Yes.”

“Robb…” she says, her heart beating faster. How many different ways would he find to tell her he loved her, she wondered. 

“Yes, my darling,” he says, shirking etiquette once more as he traces the side of her face with his finger. 

“I love you.” She’d never said it in so many words, she realized. 

He sighs, as though he has waited a long time to hear those words, but he simply says, “That’s why we’re here, sweet girl.” 

They are interrupted then by a yawning princess. 

“Ella is it time for bed?” the little girl asks, her eyes already closing as she leans into her. 

Myrcella strokes her hair, “Yes, sweetling, let’s go, I’ll tuck you in. Shall I have Grenn carry you?” 

“Or I could,” Robb cuts in. He almost sounds nervous, as though they may not want to let him into their little club. Shireen lets out a sleepy smile and Myrcella tilts her head in approval. 

He picks up the little girl in his arms, and she smiles as her cousin burrows into his neck, her arms wrapping around him, already half asleep. As she watches him carry the girl she loves more than her own life, she finds that she no longer needs to fear whispers, so she let’s her hand rest on his back, her cheek against his arm, as she and her little family leave the great hall behind. 

***

Robb had dressed in the clothes that Sansa had laid out for him. They were more ornate than the ones he normally wore, but they were still the colors and materials of the North, and they fit with the crown that now rested on his head. He normally didn’t wear one, it was not a tradition in the North, but the occasion warranted it. 

He made his way to the Godswood, finding the majority of his court already there. He joined Sam under the heart tree and waited. 

Sansa and Shireen came first. They wore matching coats of light blue, with white fur trim, and were the perfect princesses as they walked through the wood holding hands. He heard Rickon gasp and smiled at history repeating itself. 

He forgot all of that when he saw Myrcella being lead by Jon. She wore a heavy black and gold cloak, a cream overcoat underneath, and her hair was down in the Northern style. She was timeless, this beauty of his. Her eyes meet his and she gives him a small smile, and he could swear she starts walking just a little bit faster. Jon’s smirk confirms it.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Sam asks, reciting the words of the North.

“Myrcella, of the House Baratheon, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Jon answered.

“Robb, of the House Stark, King of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?” he says, and even he can hear the pride in his voice.

“Jon of the North, her sworn shield.” Jon says. They had argued over this point and ultimately he had refused Robb’s request of identifying as House Stark.

“Princess Myrcella, do you take this man?” Sam asks. 

Her otherworldly eyes rest on him now as she says, her voice sweet and clear, “I take this man.”

He can’t help the smile that comes to his face or the tears that come to his eyes, but he takes her hand and together they turn toward the Heart Tree, kneeling before it in silent prayer. Robb prays for a short Winter, peace in his Kingdom, health to his family, and happiness for her. Her head is bowed so devoutly, that it is he that rises first, pulling her to her feet when her eyes open so that he may take off her Baratheon cloak. He then wraps his family’s cloak around her, stroking the side of her neck lightly as he does. The ceremony is over, she is his wife, and it is not for tradition’s sake that he takes her face in his hands and kisses her lips. 

***

She could not believe that she was a married woman. It had felt holy, standing in the Godswood with Robb, pledging themselves to one another. People bowed lower to her now, if that were even possible, and she felt a great responsibility to them. She would be a kind Queen, and a strong one, she promised herself. 

Robb was by her side always, and she hoped that he felt as she did, not wanting to be parted. They are about to go to the High Table when a familiar song, their song is played.

“Will you honor me with a dance, my Queen?” he asks, raising her fingers to his lips.

“I’d be delighted, husband,” she says and his eyes darken on the last word. 

They move to the center of the floor, the other dancers moving to the side as they do, and Robb leads her in the now familiar steps. It is a testament to their comfort with one another that every time he decides to deviate from the traditional dance, she follows him easily, pliant in his arms as she had been that first night. 

“So my darling, will you finally allow me to call you Ella?” he asks her, as the dance brings them close. 

“Don’t you know, husband? Now all things are permitted…” she says, and can’t keep the flirtatious lilt out of her voice.

“Myrcella Baratheon…” he says, as though chastising her as he spins her, “If you keep talking like that, I am going to announce us to bed at once.”

“Will there be no bedding ceremony?” she asks, careful not to show the hope in her voice.

His eyes darken, “Of course not. You cannot imagine I would let you be degraded like that.”

He says it so matter of fact. As though shirking centuries of tradition for her comfort is nothing at all. 

“You are a kind King… I think you shall make a kind husband as well,” she says with a smile. 

“I can be rather grumpy…” he warns her.

“Then I shall have to be a diverting wife,” she says as he turns her so her back is to him, leading her side to side. 

“I’m not sure you could help it, my darling girl,” he says, and he lets a hand find her waist, causing heat to rise on her face at the sensation of her body in his grasp. 

“Robb…” she says as he spins her back to face him, the song nearing an end.

“Yes, my Queen?” he asks, as he bends over her hand to kiss it as the song ends. 

“Would you…announce us to bed? If you are ready to retire of course…” she says, remembering herself at the end.

His grin is positively wolfish as he straightens, ready to address his court.

***

He actively fought the urge not to pick Myrcella up, shedding her clothes on the way to his chambers in their own bedding ceremony. Instead, he announced to his court that they would be retiring, telling them to drink and make merry as long as they liked, and then he had taken her hand and led her slowly but steadily through the castle. 

When they finally arrived to his chambers, he let her go in first, locking the door behind them. Myrcella looked around his solar and he remembered then that she had never visited him here.

“Is this where you work? I had thought you had a study off of the library with Jon…” she says, as though she is embarrassed for not knowing.

“I do, this is where I work when I am working into the night. It does not do people good to know that their King is pacing into the late hours…” he says, thinking of how many times he had seen the light rising in the morning after an entire night’s work. 

“I don’t think your people would be surprised, they are used to you worrying about them,” she said with a small smile, though he could tell that she meant the words. 

“I was thinking we could have a desk brought in here for you, there is room. Unless of course you would prefer your own study…” he says, trying not to show his preference, knowing that her parents must have had separate wings in the Red Keep. 

“You’d allow me to work in here with you?” she asks him shyly. 

He crosses to her then, gathering her in his arms, “Of course I would. You are my wife and my Queen, I want you by my side as both.”

He is surprised when she raises her lips to his. She had never kissed him before, and the feeling was sweeter knowing it was her who had initiated it. He fights to keep the urgency from his touch, but she reaches up shyly to tangle her fingers in his curls and he can’t help but pull her body against his. He kisses her back, teasing her lips open, tasting the sweetness of the wine on her tongue.   
“Shall I show you where we are to sleep, my Queen?” he asks, his voice gruff. 

“Yes, husband,” she says and he feels the shot of desire run through him once again when she calls him that. He had never cared for titles, especially from her, but this one filled him with a sense of love that he’d never felt. 

He takes her by the hand and leads her into his bedchamber. The servants had lit a fire and dressed the bed in fresh bedding.

“So this is where a King sleeps,” she says, her eyes on his jerkin, and he can hear a slight shake in her voice. 

Tucking his finger under her chin to force her to look at him he says, “Yes… and that is all we need do this evening should you wish it. We have a lifetime to do more.”

“We have a duty, husband,” she says, as her fingers find the strings of his jerkin, “and…”

“And?” he says, not even trying to keep the hope from his voice. He did not want her out of duty and he needed to know she felt the same.

“I want to be with you, truly… I want to seal myself to you in every way possible, so that no man or god could part us,” she says, a new strength in her voice and then she smiles up at him, “and I’d quite like you to kiss me again…” 

He is helpless to resist her, not that he would want to, and he holds the hands that hold the strings of his jerkin, pulling them so that it is unlaced. He shrugs out of it then before pulling her face back to his and kissing her slowly. He is finally able to nibble on the bottom lip that enchants her teeth so and he nearly blacks out when he hears her surprised moan. 

“May I?” he asks, as his hands find the laces at the back her dress. She only nods so he moves behind her, unlacing her. His lips find her neck as he does and her head falls back against him and he is suddenly unlacing her quicker, until her dress is undone and she can step out of it, standing only in her shift. 

He undoes his own pants, knowing that tonight she would be too shy for that, and when he turns to her he is only in his shirt and small clothes. He can see her nipples through her shift and he wants to remove it so that he may kiss them, but his own shirt is being removed by small sure hands. It had been a long time since he had been bare in front of a woman, and never one like her. She was high born, a princess no less, and he knew he had the war torn body of a soldier.

Her hands danced across his chest like feathers, “This?” she asked as her fingers hovered over a scar near his breastbone.

“A spear, Ghost finished him before it could go deeper,” he says quietly. For the first time in months he has the urge to cry when he feels her lips on the spot.  
“This?” she asks, her fingers hovering over a scar near his collarbone. 

“A sword in the Battle of Whispering Wood,” he says, and his breath hitches when her lips trail over it.

“Ella…” he says, his face in her hair. This was divine torture and he was losing himself.

“It is good… that you have scars too… perhaps you may not be so disappointed…” she says, a shake to her voice as she hooks her shift off of her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. 

His first thought is that she is the Maiden made flesh. She is impossibly slender, with long limbs, but a womanly curve to her hips, and small soft breasts. His second thought is that if he had the power to bring back the dead, he would awaken Joffrey just to send him back to the gods once again. Like him, her body, her perfect body, is littered sparingly in scars. 

He knows himself to be a coward when he wants to close his eyes against them. They do nothing to mar her beauty, but worse, he can see each of the occasions she must have earned them. He sees a long narrow scar that he knows must have been caused by the sharp edge of a blade, a round one that must have been from something burning. He takes up her methods and presses kisses to them, not wanting to ask her to relive them, knowing that unlike him, she had not had her vengeance against those who caused them. He knew too, that many of these would have been in defense of his sister and he is determined to worship this wife of his until his last breath. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he says, truthfully, not even the scars and his anger at them could dissipate his desire for her, “and no one will ever lay a hand on you ever again.” 

“But you will… right?” she says, and he is so consumed in his own thoughts that he almost misses the teasing lilt in her voice, he is prepared to protest her words when he sees her sly smile. 

He growls at her then, pulling her to him and then falling back on his bed, her on top of him, “Yes, wife. I fear I shall never do anything else,” he says as he allows his hands to wander up and down her sides. 

She straddles him then, and he lets his hands reach around to cup her bottom, knowing without seeing it that it is perfect. 

“I don’t know what to do, Robb… you have to tell me if I do something wrong…” she says as she leans in to kiss him. 

He rolls them so he is on top of her, “You could never do anything wrong, my love, but for now…” he says as he presses kisses to her breasts, then her stomach, “Just lie back and tell me if I do something wrong…”   
He feels her hips jerk up as he presses a kiss to her cunt, and he finds her wet and her desire for him mixed with her heady smell is intoxicating. He let’s his tongue trace her and hears a gasp, so he does it again. When she is moaning he lets a finger enter her and he groans against her when he feels how tight she is. He lets his tongue circle her nub as he pushes another finger inside of her, moving them in and out. 

“Robb?” she asks breathlessly and he knows that she is close. He doesn’t let up his ministrations and nearly peaks himself when he feels her walls tighten around him. She let’s out a delicate little cry and when he looks up at her, her otherworldly eyes are cloudy. 

He moves back up her body, hovering over her so that he doesn’t crush her and she lifts off the bed so she can kiss him, pulling him down on her. If he hurts her she doesn’t say, and he finds he likes covering her small body with his own. He likes it even more when she spreads her legs underneath him and he finds his cock against her wet entrance. 

“Are you ready, my love?”

“Make me your wife, Robb…” 

His wife. His wife. She, this impossible beauty, was his wife. For the first time, he was nervous, knowing that no woman who came before her had mattered, feeling like a virgin himself again. 

He took himself in his hand and guided himself into her. He felt her resistance, though she made no protest, pulling him harder against her, and when he felt her break around him it was he who cried out. 

“You are mine, my love,” he says as he starts to move in her, wonder in his voice, knowing that he did not have long. 

He felt her long legs wrap around him and he grasped her thigh, forcing himself to keep a kind pace. It mattered not because the moment she arched her back he was gone, spilling into her with a cry. 

He tried to hold himself above her but she pulled him back down to her and his head found her breasts, laying his cheek against them. Her fingers stroked his curls and he was overwhelmed with contentment.

“I think I shall like being yours, husband,” she said, before he drifted off to sleep with a lazy smile on his lips.


	14. Chapter 13

When she woke, she couldn’t move, Robb was still splayed on top of her, his arms wrapped around her tightly. It was no small thing to have a King so vulnerable before you, and she relished in the comfort they seemed to already feel with one another. 

She hadn’t known what to expect from the consummation, but it surely had not been the overwhelming sensation she’d had when he pressed his mouth to her. She had always felt dizzy when he kissed her, but this feeling was something else entirely and she wanted it again. 

She looked down at him, he looked so peaceful, his long lashes touching his rosy cheeks. He was so handsome, with his strong nose and square jaw, and she loved the feeling of his strong arms around her. She ran her hands through his curls, they almost made him look like a little boy and she liked to feel them against her fingers. 

“Good morning, my love,” he said sleepily as he nuzzled her breasts and she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Good morning, your grace,” she said flirtatiously, stretching underneath him as he moved up her body.

“You do not need to call me that, not anymore…” he says, almost in a whine. 

“And what shall I call you? Shall I call you the Young Wolf?,” she asked, a smile on her lips as he nudges his nose against hers, “Or shall I call you sire?” she said with a giggle as he pulled her on top of him. 

“You can call me whatever you want, Ella, as long as you call me yours,” he said to her pulling her arms down so that he could kiss her.

His hands wandered down her back until they cupped her bottom, and she felt him harden against her. She felt a jolt of pleasure and sought it again, so she rolled her hips against him, loving the groan his lips emitted. 

“Mine… all mine…” she said as he positioned himself at her entrance. She sunk down on him, feeling herself stretch around him, and held on tightly to his wrists for support. 

“Oh my love, you feel so good,” he said, his voice matching the desperation she’d heard last night. 

“Show me, Robb…I don’t –“ she said but lost her train of thought as he took her by her hips and moved her on him, rolling her deliciously. She mimicked the movements he had just done and another rush of pleasure went through her. 

“That’s it, Ella,” he said to her reassuringly as his fingers found her center, sitting up. 

“Robb!” she exclaimed as a jolt of pleasure went through her. 

His smile was wolfish, “Do you like that, wife?”

“Yes…yes…” she said desperately as he strummed her. 

“Show me how much,” he said, as his other hand moved her hips against him, “Ride me, Ella,” he said leaning in so that his teeth grazed her ear, “Your King commands it.”

That shouldn’t send a delicious pleasure through her, but it does, and she is eager to do his bidding. She rests her arms on his shoulders, as she starts rocking her hips back and forth. His fingers continue their attentions on her and she finds herself moaning, her body building to the same thing she had felt last night. 

“Just like that, my love.” He says, his lips on her collarbone, her fingers in his hair. He rolls her again and she can’t help but pull his hair, “Mmm my savage Queen,” he says looking up at her. 

He is looking at her with such desire that she feels herself whimper, her face crumbling and both his hands up to cup her cheeks, pulling her forehead against his. She no longer needs his guidance as she chases the feeling he had given her the night before and he captures her mouth in his, their moans meeting. 

“Come for me, my darling, now.” 

She is nothing if not a loyal subject and she comes apart at his words. He holds her as he comes apart as well, and she finds that she loves the sound he makes and the look of wonder in his eyes when he does. 

“I love you,” he says as he moves them so they are lying on their sides, facing one another, tangled in each others limbs.

“That’s why we’re here, my sweet King.”

***

Robb walked through the castle, purposefully, ignoring those that bowed as he passed. He should have followed Jon, should have made him stop, but he knew his faithful Hand would be kneeling in the Godswood now, railing at the deities, railing at the dead, and not wishing to be disturbed. 

He wasn’t sure how someone heard the things that they just did. How could one comprehend that? How many different things had happened because of it? How many thousands had died?

He hurried to his solar, he needed time to think, time to gather himself. What did this mean? How had Howland Reed, his father’s oldest friend, changed his world in the space of a single conversation?

He barged in, and was surprised when Myrcella hopped up as though she’d been scalded from where she sat by the fire. 

“Forgive me, my love,” she said, and had he been less distracted he might have smiled that she didn’t curtsey. He must have looked manic because her green eyes widened, “Has there been an attack?” she asked calmly.

“No… no… everything is alright, darling.” He heard himself say, though neither of them believed it. 

He started to pace. There was never anyone else here when he needed to think and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her here. 

She seemed to sense this and she said, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” and walked by him, stroking his arm gently as she did. 

He was in such shock that he didn’t try to stop her, and he was surprised to hear her say gently from the door, “You are a king, my love, and as such, I know that there are things that you won’t want to tell me. But as my husband, there is nothing that you can’t bring to me. There is no burden I wouldn’t share with you, should you have the need.” 

She turns to leave, and it feels as though all of the warmth will go with her, so he says, barely above a whisper, “Please, stay.”

***

She almost hadn’t heard it, she had almost left him. She had felt like an idiot the moment she saw him, had felt like she was intruding in his sacred space, but he had told her he wanted her there, so she hadn’t hesitated to curl up with a book in front of the fire. 

She had seen him like that only once, when Sansa had let slip that Ser Meryn had snuck into her chambers one night. His eyes were wild and she knew that he must have been a sight to behold on the battlefield, but there was a vulnerability there too that made her want to hold him. 

“Please, stay,” he had said, so lightly, but she had latched the door and crossed to him. 

She wouldn’t push him, whatever he was going to say would be said in his own time so she only gathered his hands in her small ones and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. She heard his breathing return to normal and he pulled them over to the large chair. He plopped into it and pulled her with him. 

“Jon and I just met with Howland Reed at his request. Are you familiar with him?” Robb started.

Myrcella remembered him and his children from the wedding. There was an ancientness to them, even though the children were younger than her. She knew that the Reeds had been pledged to the Starks for a thousand years.

“Only by name,” she said. 

“He was one of my father’s greatest friends. They were together during your father’s rebellion. He was there when my father found my Aunt Lyanna,” Robb said looking at the flames.

Lyanna Stark, the beauty that tore apart a kingdom. The beauty that tore apart a marriage before it even began. The beauty that altered the fate of nations. 

She had nearly forgotten that Robb was not the first Stark to go to war for his sister. Where Robb had been successful, his father had been too late. He had torn his way across the Seven Kingdoms, but she died anyway. She knew that Robb was thinking the same thing, that what if he had been too late, so she kissed his temple, urging him to go on. 

“What do you know of Rhaegar Targaryen?” he asked her curiously.

She didn’t want to upset him. She knew that he, like his father, like her father, must have hated the fallen prince. 

He sensed her hesitation, “Tell me.”

“I only know stories, Robb. But my father had a knight in his Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy. He was kind and noble and he had guarded the Targaryens before the rebellion. He told me that Rhaegar had not been like his father. He told me that he didn’t enjoy killing. That he liked to sing. That he liked to drink and laugh and dance. And that – “

“Go on.”

“That he loved your Aunt Lyanna.”

“Perhaps, but thousands died for it. Including her.” Robb said, solemnly and she only nodded. “Howland said…”

He paused, as though the world may shift with his next statement. She knew that though the world was not, the fate of their marriage was in the balance. That this next moment would determine his confidence in her. 

“He said that when my father came out of the Tower of Joy, he brought a baby with him. My Aunt Lyanna had given birth to a child,” he said, as though trying to make sense of the words as he said them.

A surviving Targaryen in Westoros? It had been her father’s greatest fear, the fear of a pretender. The fear that another, more worthy, more legitimate might rise. There was something nearly satisfying that her brother had always been the pretender people claimed him to be.

“Did he give you any indication of what happened to the child?” she asked, it was the only question that mattered. If there was a Stark alone in the world, they would find them and protect them. 

“It appears that my father brought him here, raised him as his own bastard,” Robb said and she finally understood. His world had truly shifted.

“Jon… of course.” She said almost to herself. 

“Of course?”

“My uncle once said, whoever Jon’s mother had been, your father must have loved her fiercely. I have never known a Stark to love someone more fiercely than his sister.”

“He is my cousin… he’s a Targaryen… he’s…” Robb said, trailing off as if trying to pick apart the thoughts tangled in his brain.

“He is your brother, he is a Stark, he is your Hand and my Sworn Shield and your greatest friend and advisor. His parentage matters not, Robb,” she said, her hand finding his curls as she spoke against his temple. 

“He has a claim, Ella. The Lords will press him to use it, to take the Iron Throne. They will want to unite the Seven Kingdoms with Jon and I as allied Kings,” he said and she knew he was imagining another war, and at the end of it, separation from his greatest friend.

“I don’t think they will Robb. The Lords are tired. They have fought too many wars already and Winter is coming.” 

“Did you just say that?” he asks, humor in his voice for the first time since he’d entered the chambers as he turns to look at her.

“Well it’s true… and I’m a Stark now, aren’t I?” she asked indignantly.

“You are, thanks be to the gods.” He said against her hair.

“We need to find Jon, he’ll be in the Godswood, would you like me to get him?” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. 

“I’ll come with you. Then we need to tell our family.” 

For some reason, Myrcella knew that at least one of his siblings would not be upset by the news.


	15. Chapter 14

He escorted Myrcella out to the Godswood in search of Jon. It was a cold bright day and Myrcella huddled against him. As they spoke, icy clouds erupted from their mouths and the tip of her nose went as pink as her cheeks. 

He hadn’t thought to confide in her, but he knew now that Sansa had been right, Myrcella would make him happy, indecently so. It wasn’t just that she was kind, though she was, or beautiful, though she was, he felt like she had told it true, that he would always be able to unburden himself to her. 

They found him by the Heart Tree. The tree held even more significance to Robb now, it being the site where he had bound himself to Myrcella. He wasn’t praying, he was sitting with his back to it, his head in his hands. Myrcella looked up at him, her grip tightening on his arm and looking at him encouragingly. 

“Jon… I’m sorry,” he said. A pathetic start but he didn’t know what else to say. 

When Jon looked up it was clear he’d been crying, his dark eyes had a wildness that Robb had only seen once before, when Sansa had let it slip that Ser Meryn had snuck into her chambers one night. That had been the night Myrcella had earned the slash to her stomach he’d found out. He’d mistaken her for a servant girl. 

“It… doesn’t matter unless you want it to. You’re my brother. That is all the world knows, that is all they need to know. You’re my brother and you’re my Hand and Howland Reed will never tell the story again. He only told it now because he knew that father had wanted to do so before he died. He seeks nothing more than fulfilling father’s wishes,” Robb continued. 

“I don’t care if people know… I mean… I do… but…” Jon said and then let out another sob, “By the gods Robb… I’m the reason the country went to war… I’m the reason my mother, your aunt is dead. I’m the reason our uncle and grandfather are dead. I’m a child of… rape,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word. 

In that moment, Robb knew that Myrcella had told it true. There was no way that Jon, the most noble man he’d ever known apart from his father could be the result of that most un-noble act. There must be more to the story than what they’d been told. 

He’d been mulling all of this over and hadn’t realized that Myrcella had left his side to kneel in front of Jon. She took his large hands in her small gloved ones. 

“I don’t believe that’s true, Jon, but even if it is, it does not define who you are. If you ask any villager in the Seven Kingdoms, I am a child of incest. I am marred by it, stained by it. Yet you, and Robb, and your family and your people have accepted me as a trueborn princess. As someone worthy of love and protection. Eddard Stark was your father, no matter who made you, and he was the best father that ever lived because he has created a family that have brought tyrants to their knees, that have survived and persevered and triumphed all for the love of one another. Your mother made him promise to protect you, so regardless of your parentage Jon, you have always been, and will always be, loved.”

Robb stood in awe of his queen. She was so young, but so good and wise and he watched her words soothe Jon. The brave knight still had tears running down his face but he nodded at her words and he let her pull him up and when they turned to him, Jon slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him so that he may kiss her temple. 

Robb offered his elbow to Myrcella and she wove her arm through it, as Jon offered the same. They walked back to the castle, the Queen flanked on either side by the King and his Hand. To anyone who saw them, they might have thought that the men held her up, not wishing her to slip on the ice, but Robb and Jon both knew that it was she who steadied them that day and they drew strength from the faith she had in them. 

***

“Come on, sweetling,” Myrcella said to Shireen when she found her in the library. 

“Where are we going, Ella? It isn’t time for dinner yet,” Shireen said her head still hovering over the book. 

“The King has requested our presence,” Myrcella said and could have laughed at the way Shireen’s head snapped to attention. The crown would never find a subject more loyal than her little cousin. 

“Don’t you mean your husband?” Shireen cooed at her as she closed the book hopping up.

“One in the same, sweetling,” she said grabbing the younger girl’s hand.

Shaggydog, Shireen’s shadow, followed them down the hall to Robb’s solar. Myrcella had been surprised that Robb had requested Shireen be present when they told his siblings, but she loved him for it. She knew that he would not want her or Rickon to have to lie to her, and a part of her thought that he had come to think of her as a sister of sorts. 

They filed in, they were the last to arrive, and Myrcella smiled as Rickon immediately scooted over in one of the large chairs so that Shireen might sit beside him. 

Myrcella smiled reassuringly at Robb and Jon, but stood in between Sansa and Bran, her hand on Bran’s shoulder, while her other came around Sansa’s waist. They both covered her hands with theirs and she thought, not for the first time, how similar these siblings were. 

“What I am about to say must not leave this room. I do not wish to alarm any of you, we are not in any danger, but the consequences of this getting out are unknowable. We have gathered all of you because you are family and it is only right that you should know,” Robb said, and she knew he was struggling between his King voice and that of their older brother and protector. 

Sansa and Bran’s grips tightened on her. Jon spoke next, “Howland Reed came to see Robb and I. He wanted to tell us of his time during the rebellion. Or rather, something specific from it…” he said trailing off.

“You all know the story… of father finding Aunt Lyanna in the Tower of Joy… but… it appears that… before she died, she had given birth to a son. Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” Robb said. 

“So Lord Eddard,” Jon started and Myrcella heard Sansa’s breath hitch when he did not call him father. She knew. Of course she did. Something in her must have sensed it. Myrcella turned and saw her working it out in her head, the relief, that she was not sick. “Brought that son home, and as he promised his sister, protected him, raised him as his own bastard.”

There was silence in the room as they all absorbed what they heard, but surely Myrcella was not the only one who noticed that Jon’s eyes had not left Sansa’s once he had started speaking. It was like watching a flower bloom all at once, the way their love came alive right before her. 

She tore her gaze from them and saw that Robb too had noticed. His face was grim, and she was not sure if it was as a brother or as a King, but all the same she knew that neither part of him was happy with what he saw.


	16. Chapter 15

He hadn’t even thought of that. He was such a fool. All he could think of was losing his best friend, of what it meant that his father hadn’t fathered a bastard, of his aunt who was dead before her time. 

 

He hadn’t thought of the stolen looks he’d seen them share, or the way Sansa seemed to float when Jon lead her in a dance, the way his body curled protectively towards her with any mention of the past. He hadn’t thought of Jon’s serious face when he teased Robb about a love with a face the poets muse about, or a heart that could melt the North’s snows. He hadn’t thought of how she told him to be careful with his promises. 

 

Of course they loved each other. 

 

It was as clear as day now, the way Jon’s eyes hadn’t left hers since his parentage came to life, how she looked relieved and terrified all at once. 

 

He tried to feel sick, it would be so much easier if he was genuinely revolted, but he couldn’t be. 

 

He looked at Myrcella. She had said it herself. As far as anyone knew or considered, she was the child of incest. How could he fear what his greatest friend and dearest sister could bring when two of the most vicious creatures in all of Westoros had made one such as her. 

 

Even still, how could he allow it? The country had gone to war for less. His sister was a princess, they’d never allow her to wed herself to a bastard, no matter who sired him.

 

“You’re still a Stark,” Bran said solemnly, like a vow. His wise little brother.

 

“I was never a Stark,” Jon said, and Robb could hear the pain in his voice. 

 

“Yes you are!” little Rickon protested, “You’re our brother!”

 

Robb’s heart swelled with pride for his little brothers. They were exactly like his parents would have wanted them to be. 

 

“They’re right, Jon,” he said, though he was looking at Sansa. “No matter what, you’ll always be our brother.”

 

***

 

“Sweetling, wait,” Myrcella said as Sansa stormed out of the room. 

 

She didn’t get a chance to stop her though, because Jon sprinted out after her. 

 

“What’s her problem? It’s not as though she found out that _she’s_ a Targaryen,” Rickon said. 

 

“I think she’s just surprised. Now come on, my little wolf,” she said, crossing to where he and Shireen were seated, pointedly avoiding Robb. “You two have your lessons.”

 

“Ella –“ Robb started but she silenced him with a look. 

 

“We’ll take our leave, your grace,” she said with a curtsey in full due to his rank. 

 

She understood it, or at least part of it. She knew that he would be worried about his people. Sansa was the greatest bargaining chip in the Seven Kingdoms and no one would take kindly to her being married to a bastard, her own half-brother as far as anyone else was concerned. She knew that Robb was right, and he was also King. She would not challenge him, but nor could she look in his eyes as he denied love to two of the people they loved most in the world. 

 

Shireen moved by her to hold onto Rickon’s little hand. She felt him sigh in contentment, filled with an unspoken calm the moment their fingers intertwined. _Is this how it is for Sansa and Jon?_ She wondered, knowing that she filled with the same comfort whenever Robb held her. 

 

She lead the children through the castle, and though they were alone, neither breathed a word of what they’d just learned. They were young, but they had been raised in war. They understood what an errant word could do to a happy family, to a peaceful kingdom. 

 

After she’d left Shireen and Rickon with the Maester she traveled to the kitchens. 

 

“My Queen,” Lyla said, curtsying low to her. Myrcella adored the cook, the niece of Old Nan who had been so important to the Stark children. 

 

“Lyla,” Myrcella said as she felt a sense of calm fill her. There was something about the woman that made her feel like a child, safe and warm and protected. “I was hoping you might help me - has the Glass Gardens produced any lemons as of late?”

 

“Aye, a group was brought in just this morning. Something for Princess Sansa?,” Lyla asked knowingly.

 

“Something for all the Stark children,” Myrcella said with a small smile as she thought of the other items on her list. 

 

***

 

He didn’t see his new wife until that evening as he returned to his chambers to drop off his cloak before supper. He was surprised to see her there, he would have thought that in her anger at him she would have returned to her old chambers. 

 

She looked like a true Northern lady now, in her dark blue dressed trimmed with grey fur, her beautiful golden hair styled simply. 

 

“Myrcella,” he breathed in relief as Grey Wind trotted to her side. 

 

“Husband,” she said guardedly, dropping him a curtsey that made him want to scream. 

 

Her formality, after last night’s intimacy hurt him more than he could say, but it also brought out his own, so he crooked his elbow and said, “May I escort you to the Great Hall?”

 

“No,” she said to his surprise, but she came and took his arm and said, with a little mischief in her eyes, “For we are not _going_ to the Great Hall.”

 

He barely registered what she’d said, focusing just on the _we_ and he allowed her to lead him down the hall to one of the smaller dining rooms that his parents had only used on special occasions, or when important family matters had needed to be discussed. However when they entered it, he hardly recognized it. 

 

The room had been decorated as an ice palace, and the large dining table had a number of different dishes on it, though he noted, only so much as they each would need for their plate. This was not a Southern feast but a Northern one, with each of the attendant’s favourite meals placed in front of them. 

 

Around the table were his siblings, including Jon, and the Princess Shireen. The wolves had all piled around the fire and Grey Wind trotted over to join them. 

 

“What is all this?,” he asked her incredulously. 

 

“It’s The Children’s Feast!” Princess Shireen said excitedly and Myrcella let go of his arm as the child came to take his hand and lead him to the place of honour at the head of the table. 

 

“And what, Princess, is that?,” he asked her with a smile. 

 

To his surprise, it was his sister Sansa that answered.

 

“It’s a tradition we began in King’s Landing, brother,” she explained, “The original attendants were Myrcella, Shireen, and I, and poor, sweet Tommen.”

 

“One day,” Shireen continued, as though this was a secret she’d been dying to share for a very long time, “When Ser Meryn Trant had been cruel to Sansa and Myrcella, we had our first Children’s Feast. Together, we raided the kitchens and ate it in a chamber where no one could find us. We all grabbed our favourite treats and toasted one another.”

 

Robb felt sick to his stomach, that an eight year old girl could talk so excitedly about a day that should have terrified her. 

 

“Why - why would you want to continue that tradition,” Jon asked, mirroring his horror and confusion.

 

“Because we made it _our_ day,” Myrcella said. “That day was one of the many that Sansa defended _me_ and I defended _her_ and we lived to tell the tale. They sought to divide us, as so many have, as so many still might, and we took strength from one another, defended one another _and we won._ We were meant to be enemies, which is why we were such successful allies - we chose one another.”

 

She finished the last by looking between him and Jon as Sansa stood at her side. 

 

“You see,” Sansa said, “Loyalty isn’t blind. It isn’t inevitable. It’s a choice. A choice we made every day. A choice we will always make. I look around this room and I see how wisely I have chosen. I will always choose you, each and every one of you.”

 

“And I you,” Myrcella and Shireen echoed chillingly. 

 

“And I you,” Jon said raising his wine, and there was gravel in his throat. 

 

“And I you,” he, Bran and Rickon all said finally. 

 

He realised then that he meant it. He looked at his young wife and thought how lucky he was to have found her, to have been chosen by her and to choose her in return.

 

This sister of his had chosen well, and after so much heartbreak, how could he deny her?

 

_Yes, I choose you, and I will defend your choices too. May the gods have mercy on any who seek otherwise._


	17. Chapter 16

Settling into marriage with Ella was as easy as breathing. It turned out, they had similar habits. Both rose early so that they could eat a quiet breakfast on their own (they took to having the cooks prepare meals for them to eat in their solar, pausing to speak every so often when she looked up from her letters or he from his reports). They then would take a long walk with all of the wolves and any of the others that would wake (usually just Jon, though every so often Ella would disappear and come back with a bundled up Shireen, the younger girl having been tempted by warm scones and promises of piggy back rides). Then they would depart to go about the daily tasks of being King and Queen, he would meet with his advisors, she would handle the accounts, then they both would attend to the summoners who stopped by each day to air grievances before them. 

They sat in the Great Hall each night for dinner with their people, often times there was music and dancing, Ella was determined to bring the best parts of the Red Keep with her. But once a week, they and their family, along with Sam and Grenn gathered for a private meal. It went against custom, his father had always said Your people need to see you, but Sansa had insisted. She had said that all of them had been without family for far too long and no one could disagree. He cherished those nights, when they were all kept warm by the crackling fire and each other’s laughter. 

Ella was gaining comfort with him as well. She no longer waited for him to initiate their lovemaking, not that she ever had to wait long. Once though, he’d returned from a council meeting to dress for dinner only to find her soaking in a tub sprinkled with winter rose petals. She looked like a water goddess, beautiful and deadly all at once. He had leaned down to plant a chase kiss to her lips and she had pulled him in, giggling all the while. After they’d hurriedly rid him of his clothes she’d climbed astride him and road him desperately, consuming him as the water sloshed onto the floor. Most mornings it was hard to rise at all, when getting out of bed meant losing the comforting warmth of her body against his. 

They days were growing colder. The snows were more and more frequent and the days grew shorter all the while. They had not yet received a white raven from the Citadel but he knew it was only days away. He worked tirelessly into the night, debating with the envoy from the Reach over trade terms. War had robbed the country of its preparations and Robb would not see his people starve. They had all begun to ration as a precaution, and Ella and Sam spent hours each day reading of new ways to plant, store, and preserve during the Winter. 

“Come, sweetling, try,” he overheard as he walked into his solar. 

“It’s no use, I’m rubbish at it!,” Shireen said and Robb had to fight the urge to laugh at the scene that greeted him. 

Ella sat in one chair while Shireen sat in another, Shaggydog and Ghost before them with spools of yarn wrapped around them. Ella had long taken over the duties of Shireen’s mother, and had told him only the night before how much the little girl was struggling to learn to knit. 

“Is Ghost knitting me a scarf?,” he asked with a smile. 

“Robb, tell her that some people just can’t knit,” Shireen ordered imperiously. She had long since stopped addressing him formally while in private and could be quite bossy with him which he loved, as that is the way she addressed those she most trusted. 

“Ella, my love, it has come to my attention that some people just can’t knit,” he said as solemnly as he could. 

They were the perfect distraction from the troubling council session he’d just had, reports from down south of a young Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea. 

Ella looked up at him as though she’d really been hoping he would take her side, “There is a difference between can’t and won’t, sweetling,” she said though. 

Shireen looked at her scornfully. When she did that she almost looked like his sister Arya, the only Stark not yet found. Arya had always hated knitting and sewing, preferring instead to shoot bow and arrows and rumour had it, sword fight. 

“Shireen,” he said, the idea forming, “What if I made you a deal.”

The little girl stood up and patted the seat she’d vacated, knowing full well that he was a poor deal maker where she was concerned. He sat down and pulled her into his lap, unwinding the knots of yarn that had engulfed her limbs. 

“What if you spend an hour a day with Ella learning how to knit or sew, whatever she wants to teach you, and Jon and I take you along when we train Rickon?,” he said, and caught Ella’s grateful smile with a crinkle of his eyes. 

“You mean I’d learn to sword fight and hunt?,” she asked excitedly. 

He nodded, “But only if you try to learn with Ella, there is no woman you’d do better to model yourself after, and one day you might want to take care of people the way she takes care of you and me.”

“I promise!,” she said excitedly, and Shaggydog thumped his tail, pleased that his precious girl was happy. This set off Ghost and soon the two wolves were so tangled in yarn they looked like a blanket had unravelled them. 

“The first lesson, sweetling,” Ella said with a glimmer in her eye, “Never use a wolf for a spool.”

***

Ella returned from reading to Rickon and Shireen to find her husband at his desk as the candle in front of him threatened to flicker out. 

“Come, my love,” she said softly, rubbing his shoulders and leaning down to place a kiss to his cheek, “You will go blind working thus, can you not continue in the morning?”

Robb rubbed his eyes and took her hand, “I will just be a little while longer, go on to sleep, I’ll join you shortly.”

She sighed but nodded, she knew he would relent if she pressed the issue but he had clearly gotten bad news earlier and was immersing himself in his other work as a distraction. 

She hummed quietly to herself as she got ready for bed, shedding her warm gown and brushing her hair. She climbed into bed and Grey Wind hopped up beside her and the crackle of the fire and his steady breath lulled her to sleep. 

She woke as she felt Robb ease into bed beside her and immediately she turned towards him in the same moment that he reached for her. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically though his fingers roamed her back anyway. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I wanted to wait for you,” she said as she rubbed her bare silky leg against his. 

“And why is that, my love?,” he asked and she could hear the small smile in his tone. 

“Looking for a reason to stay awake,” she replied, and let her hand trail down his chest until she could grasp his manhood in her small hand. He grew hard instantly, and she still sighed in wonder at the effect she seemed to have on him.

“Ella,” he breathed out, as though her name was a prayer and a curse all at once, and he rolled on top of her. 

She spread her legs for him and rubbed against him, delighting in the groan she caused. 

He lifted her hips and pushed inside of her, and she gasped at the sudden fullness. He started rocking in her and she moved against them, their bodies taking up that faithful rhythm they had perfect in their short marriage. 

“Oh my Queen,” he murmured against her as he hitched one of her legs over him. 

“Yours, yours,” she whispered as he moved in her deeper, causing her to cry out as she wrapped her other leg around him, beckoning him as close as he could get. 

He raised up on his knees then, this strong husband of hers and took her with him. She started to rock back and forth, the angle pushing against her sensitive nub and making her see stars. 

“That’s it wife, how does your husband make you feel?,” he grunts. 

“Robb,” she moans, her fingernails digging into his back when he swats her butt. 

He cups her butt in his hands, rolling her against him relentlessly until she is telling him that he’s the one, that he’s the only one, that she will give him Princes and Princesses, that she will die before she tires of him. 

He attacks her once again, pinning her to the bed and raising her arms above her. 

“Say it again,” he demands, and she knows her wrists will bear bruises for days to come.

“I will die before I tire of you,” she says with a moan.

“Not that,” he grunts.

Her eyes flash to his, “I will give you Princes and Princesses, my King.”

He groans and presses kisses to her eyelids and her neck even as he thrusts into her again and again relentlessly, urged on by the primal need to further his line.

He takes her until they are both sweaty and sore and spent, until she is dizzy from the words of love he’s whispered in her ear. 

Two months later, she has still not received her moon’s blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think - I've only recently gotten back into writing and any thoughts are encouraging!


	18. Chapter 17

 

“That’s it, Shy,” he said, tucking the little girl’s hair behind her ear, “Keep that arm loose.”

 

Jon ‘lunged’ for her, about a tenth of the speed as he would even sparring with Robb let alone fighting for real, and the princess fended him off, practicing her footwork as she rolled so she was behind him.

 

“Well fought, Princess!,” Rickon said eagerly from where he sat watching with Ella. 

 

Shireen beamed at him then looked at Jon solemnly, indicating she was ready for him to go again. 

 

He tried something different, striking low and she lost her balance and tumbled onto her backside. He wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if she started to cry, it could be overwhelming when you were first learning but the little girl didn’t have time to get upset as Jon pretended to lose his footing and fell down beside her and started tickling her. 

 

The truth was, she was picking it up rather fast, faster than she was picking up knitting certainly, but her body was still in the stages childhood and did not always react as quickly as her mind. She grew frustrated with herself, comparing herself to Rickon though he was sinewy by nature and had started training at four when his family left home. 

 

“And who will take me on?,” Ella asked as she ruffled Rickon’s hair, picking up a sparring sword. 

 

Jon hopped up before Robb could say a word, “I’ve been wanting to spar with you since you threatened me with a dagger in King’s Landing…”

 

“Threatened?,” Ella said with an impish smile, looking closer to Rickon’s age than Jon’s in that moment, “Would I do such a thing?”

 

“Yes,” all those in attendance chorused. 

 

Ella glared only at him though before sticking her tongue out, “Best stay back, Robb.”

 

He grinned, he loved Ella’s infectious good-nature. 

 

“Any last words?,” Jon asked his Queen with a wolfish smile. 

 

“Don’t need ‘em,” she said back and stood poised for his attack. 

 

Jon lunged forward, only fractionally faster than he had with Shireen. Ella met his sword and used her lower altitude to set him off course as she pivoted behind him, turning quickly to defend herself. 

 

“Nice footwork,” Jon said with a bemused smile. He lunged forward again, about half speed this time and yet again Ella met him strike for strike.

 

Jon and Robb shared a look and Ella took advantage, going on the offensive. She was no match for Jon, who was an even better swordsman than him (not that his faithful Hand would ever say so), but she would have been a match for many of their soldiers. 

 

She was quick, and elegant. She fought rather like Jon actually, they often relied on their feet more than their hands, conserving their strength as much as possible. They fought like they danced, as though they had not thought to move in such a way and had simply done so for the pleasure of it. 

 

The two embark on a dance, turning and twisting this way and that, until Ella stumbles forward and Jon, her sworn shield, reaches to stop her from falling to the ground. It is to everyone’s immense surprise that Ella takes the opportunity to raise the sword to his throat. 

 

Shireen and Rickon clap wildly from where they sit and Jon crinkles his eyes at her. 

 

“Where did you learn that, my love?,” Robb asks her curiously. 

 

“Arya…,” she says with an apology in her eyes, “We…shared a dancing master before she fled the capital…”

 

It made sense now, suddenly, why Ella looked like Jon when she fought. Because she looked like Arya who had been watching Jon spar all her life. The two had shared a fierce camaraderie and it only stood to reason that when she learned to fight it would be with him in mind. 

 

He and Jon shared a look of mourning for the sister still lost to them and Ella, always aware of the feelings of others said quietly, “She was always better than me. Fiercer, more resilient. I’d wager she’s still putting up quite a fight somewhere.”

 

“I hope so,” Jon said quietly, “Though I would not stand a chance against both of you…”

 

Ella smiled at him, clearly pleased that she had not dampened the mood too greatly, and raised her sword again, beckoning him to attack.

 

***

 

 

She sat by the fire waiting for her husband to return from his council meeting. The days grew shorter now, and though they wouldn’t be called to dinner for hours yet, the sun waned outside and the torches had been lit. 

 

Grey Wind lay by her feet, on top of her feet rather, as he was so often these days, and it was only now that she knew why. She leaned down and scratched his head, comforted as always by the earthy hum that emanated from him when she did. 

 

The door unlatched, and she knew, though he said nothing, that it was Robb who entered, for Grey Wind’s head didn’t pick up off the floor.

 

“Hello, my love,” she said, leaning her head against the back of the chair so she could look back at him.

 

“Hello, my darling wife,” he said, as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. He was in a good mood, he was so often in a good mood now that she nearly thought to check their wine stores. 

 

“That was a short council meeting…” she said, guessing at the reason his step was so light.

 

“Thanks be to the gods…now that Lord Karstark is gone they are much less odious,” he says and she giggles, loving that their confidence in one another allowed him to abandon the political correctness expected of him. 

 

“Of course… only poor Sam to prolong them now if he dares…” she says, thinking of the way Jon and Robb would get up halfway through his stories, even though they loved him as much as she did. 

 

“Poor Sam, my eye. What of you, my love, you are a far fairer subject,” he said to her as he sat in the chair opposite of her.

 

“Well… I actually spent the better part of the afternoon with the Maester…” she says and nearly laughs when he hops out of his chair so he can cross to her.

 

“The Maester? Are you alright? You’re not ill, my love? You seem as bright as ever,” he says, the back of his hand pressed to her forehead as though it held the secrets of the universe. 

 

She takes his hand in hers and kisses his knuckles, “Peace, my love. I am well. More than well. That is…” she says, not being able to stop the tears from her eyes, “I am with child.”  

 

 

 

The whites of his eyes are suddenly tinged with red as tears flood them, “My darling, can it be true?”

 

“It’s true, my love,” she says as he kneels down in front of her, “I am over two moons along…”

 

“Do you think it was -“ he starts and she gives him a sly smile even as she blushes. 

 

He gathers her hands in his and presses kisses to her palms. 

 

“Thank you, my darling girl,” he says and she cards her fingers through his hair as he lays his head in her lap. “A baby…,” he says in wonder.

 

“A baby,” she agrees, meeting Grey Wind’s eye. The wolf puffed his chest out, as if accepting the responsibility this child would be for him. 

 

“You know what this means, don’t you, my love?,” Robb asks her. 

 

“A great many things, what in particular?,” she asks, only half paying attention as she is lulled by the crackling of the fire and her husband at her feet. 

 

“No more sword fighting.”

 

***

 

He woke to screaming. It wasn’t Sansa, but it was a girl, just as innocent, just as frightened, and he shot up like a canon. Faster still, was his wife, who, though four months pregnant, leapt from their bed before he’d even opened his eyes. 

 

“Grey Wind! Follow her!” he said feebly as he reached for their robes, but his wolf was already clamouring down the hall behind her. 

 

His eyes adjusted to the firelight of the torches lining the hall as he chased after them. He knew they weren’t under attack, but he had his dagger with him anyway, not willing to risk her. 

 

He made his way to the Princess Shireen’s room. She had been moved closer to them after they were married, and she now rested in the ‘royal wing’ along with his brothers and sister. 

 

“Hush sweetling, it’s alright, everything is alright my darling,” he heard Ella saying softly to the little girl. When he entered he barely saw the princess, for both Shaggydog and Grey Wind had huddled on top of her, prepared to protect her from the most vicious demons in her dreams. 

 

His wife was stroking her cheek and he could see the little girl’s face was wet with tears. It astonished him that Ella never seemed to have bad dreams, though she’d faced many of the same monsters that Sansa and Shireen had.

 

“You’re safe, Shy, I promise,” he said, coming slowly into the room, not wanting to startle her. It was the same thing he always said to Sansa as soon as he entered her chambers on nights she screamed out.

 

“It was Blackwater again… they… they were all burning and your mother….”

 

“Aye sweetling, I know. She was laughing. But shh shh everything is alright now. No one will ever use Wildfire again… we’re in the North. We’re safe.” 

 

It awed him that two Southern princesses would take comfort in knowing they were far from home, but he was proud too, and filled with love for the girls who had overcome so much. 

 

“So many…all dead.” Shireen was saying, still nearly incoherent as a new wave of tears flooded her. 

 

He crossed to her then, standing behind Ella and letting his hand trail down her cheek, the scarred one, “Shall we say a prayer for them tomorrow? We can go to the Sept if you’d like.” 

 

“The Godswood, your grace… if it please you. It was the Southern Gods that let them burn,” she explained sweetly. 

 

“The Godswood it is, princess. Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?” he asked gently as Ella stood up next to him.

 

“Ella…could you stay with me?” the little girl asked meekly. 

 

He could see her wavering, but they hadn’t spent a night apart since they’d wed and he didn’t want to start now. So instead, he leaned down and scooped up the little girl in his arms. 

 

“Your Grace!” she giggled. 

 

“Yes, princess?” he asked innocently as Ella took one of the furs and laid it over her little cousin. 

 

“Where are we going?,” the princess asked curiously though she burrowed into his embrace anyway, making his heart swell.

 

“To the safest place in the whole castle, of course,” he said and Ella followed him, Shaggydog and Grey Wind close behind. 

 

He brought her back to their chambers and laid her down on the far side of the bed, Ella’s ‘side’, though they always ended up huddled together on his, his arms locked around her lest she leave him. 

 

His wife kissed his cheek, whispering something about thanking him for this later, and climbed in the middle, pulling the little girl to her as the wolves piled on the bed around them. Robb latched the door and returned to the bed, getting in next to Ella. 

 

He looked at her, holding the little girl protectively to her body, while his wolves looked on lovingly at the two beauties. All he wanted was for Shireen to be safe and loved, so he wrapped his arm around them both and drifted off to sleep. The princess did not scream again that night, and though she never shared their chamber again, that was the last night she ever dreamed of the Blackwater. 

 

“Whatever is in your belly now, my darling,” Robb said to her the next day on your walk, “We must try as many times as it takes to get a little girl.”

 

Ella gave him a bemused smile, “You are an odd King, my love, isn’t it your lot who always want sons?”

 

“The realm wants sons, Ella,” he says and pulls her to him, “But give me a little girl who is just like you.”

 

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” she says and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him. 

 


	19. Chapter 18

Ella sat at the high table with Bran faithfully at her side. She’d called for music that evening and, like with anything these days, the servants had hurried to do her bidding. The idea that she might hold their heir in her belly had converted even the last hold-outs to her cause, even as it kept her from being able to dance amidst the other lords and ladies.

 

“Oh she’s lovely,” she said to herself as she saw a dark haired beauty enter the great hall. She’d never seen the girl before, but she walked slowly through the hall, as though she knew that eyes followed her.

 

“Lady Flora,” Bran said with a hint of hesitation.

 

She turned to her normally sure-spoken brother-in-law, “Are you sure?”

 

“Oh yes, I’m sure,” Bran said as they watched the lady in question cross to where Jon stood with Sansa and Sam.

 

Her favourite brother-in-law greeted the woman stoically, courteous she could tell, but without the warmth she’d always known from him. Sansa, on the other hand, looked with confusion between the two of them, while Sam stumbled all over himself to greet the beauty.

 

“I’ve not had the pleasure of her acquaintance… tell me, do her people live near here?,” she asked him. She often relied on his deep knowledge of the Northern houses, and he would patiently test her like Maester Luwin used to test him.

 

“No, Ella,” he said shortly and she looked over at him now. She’d never known this boy to use such a tone, least of all with her, and something in it made her nervous.

 

“Ah well then, I think I shall go introduce myself,” she said, standing up.

 

It was harder and harder to do these days, at eight and a half months pregnant. She hadn’t seen her feet in months and had taken to napping in the afternoons. Robb treated her like a porcelain doll, always quick to make sure she was comfortable, that she had everything she desired, rations be damned. Jon too hovered near her constantly, taking his post as her Sworn Shield more seriously now than ever. She was not allowed to walk down the stairs without holding someone’s hand, or the collar that Robb had fashioned for all the direwolves, for when they were Jon’s _deputies_. She knew poor Grey Wind detested his, often scratching at it stubbornly, though he often seemed appeased when she told him how handsome he looked in it.

 

“El -,” he started to shout, but quickly realised he was addressing his Queen rather informally in public. She turned to make sure that there was nothing truly the matter before walking down the hall.

 

“My Queen,” Jon amended, bowing to her in a way that made her scrunch her nose at him. _Seriously, what is wrong with these Stark boys?_ He kissed her hand though and came to her side, offering his arm so that she could lean some of her weight against him.

 

“My Queen you are radiance itself,” Sansa said sweetly, if not oddly. She curtseyed to her when the time called for it, but she was always Ella to her.

 

“Thank you, darling,” she said warily. “Won’t you-“

 

“Your highness would you not be more comfortable sitting?,” Sam interrupted, “Won’t you listen to the players with me?”

 

She smiled at him and bowed her head slightly, “In a moment Sam…I came over here to introduce myself to your charming companion, Lady Flora is it?”

 

The woman was loveliness personified. She was older than Ella, nearing twenty-five if she had to guess, but with smooth alabaster skin and violet eyes, the rich curtain of black hair styled freely in a style Ella had never seen, but liked all the same. She wore a purple dress that brought out her unusual eyes and it was cut in a rich velvet, the quality of which rivalled Ella’s own gown of deep green.

 

“Your highness,” Lady Flora curtseyed prettily, “It is such an _honor_ to meet you. I have heard tales of your beauty and grace, and ah, what a wonder it is for tales to be true for once!”

 

Ella smiled at her kindly, then glared at her companions. She really couldn’t understand what the fuss was about, the woman seemed perfectly charming.

 

Robb caught sight of her and started walking towards her, Shireen’s little hand in his. He came up behind Lady Flora.

 

“My darling, you must be seated! If you should need anything, food or diversion you need only ask, but I really must insist,” he said, and he and Shireen looked at her with identical faces of disapproval. Her little cousin was taking _no risks_ when it came to the baby, and had nominated herself to be the _fetcher_ of all things.

 

“I’m sorry, my love, I only wanted to meet the charming new arrival,” she said, “Lady Flora, have you met my husband, the king?”

 

Something akin to pity, or victory, it wasn’t clear which took hold in Lady Flora’s violet eyes, but then she turned towards Robb. Not even when he’d taken ill had Ella ever seen his face so white.

 

“ _My_ King,” Lady Flora said as she bent into a low curtsey. Far lower than she had for Ella.

 

“Lady Flora,” Robb said stoically, “It has been a long time.”

 

Lady Flora looked back at Ella, and now, all the kindness was gone. She turned back to Robb with a smile. “Well, almost nine months at least…”

 

***

 

_“Don’t be silly, you can’t make me your bride,” she said, though she straddled him anyway, looking at the little ring he’d created for her out of hay. “I’m a widow twice over and likely barren.”_

 

_He tackled her, cradling her head gently, “I’d like to test that theory of yours…,” he growled at her as he kissed her soft breasts._

 

_“My King,” she sighed as she reached her hand into his trousers. “My great, big king…”_

 

*

 

It had been nearly two years since he’d last seen her. She’d been twenty-three then, and back in her father’s castle after the death of her second husband. He had been in the midst of war, starting to lose hope, and then he’d been seated next to her at dinner. She had made him laugh, made even Jon laugh, which neither of them had done since the death of his mother. He’d fallen in love with her the way you always fall in love with a distraction - swiftly.

 

“Oh no, much longer than that surely,” Jon cut in, thankfully. It wasn’t a lie, and the longer he stood there in stupefied silence the more it seemed like one. “It was hardly Autumn when we saw you last and now the white raven has long since arrived…”

 

Robb noticed that Jon held Ella’s elbow, her fingers gripping the sleeve of his tunic.

 

“My lady I fear I am unfamiliar with your house, tell me, who is your father?,” Ella asked. Robb shifted uncomfortably, but Ella held Lady Flora’s gaze. She looked every inch a queen, her hand proudly on her belly, every pore emanating an other-worldly glow said to come from her condition. 

 

“Lord Humfort, your grace,” Flora said, “Of Trolly Mott.”

 

“Trolly Mott,” Ella said, teasing it on her tongue. She looked towards Sansa, ignoring Robb, “I think we heard about a battle of Trolly Mott,” she said, “Did we not, sweetling?”

 

“Y-yes,” Sansa stuttered, hooking her arm through Lady Flora’s. “We heard that after the battle, the soldiers all picked flowers in the garden. Is that right? Oh how charming, but it must have been very frightening for you, was it not? Oh will you come sit with me and tell me all about it?”

 

“Oh I’d be delighted Princess Sansa,” Flora said, though her tone suggested otherwise, “Though it has been so very long since I’ve seen my old friends. Robb?”

 

He could have sworn even in that moment that the music stopped. Everyone in the little circle, even little Shireen who still loyally had her hand in his, took a collective breath. None of them, not a one, would have called him anything short of his rank in company, though they all had his permission to do so. It was a desperate move on her part, an unnecessary one too. Ella was no fool, and she’d been raised with a philandering father. She knew what it was when a lady smiled at a husband and a wife in different ways.

 

It was Ella who spoke first. “Oh of course, how very foolish of us. Of course you will have _months_ to catch up on. I am afraid I must take my leave, Jon could I trouble you to escort me back to the royal bedchamber?”

 

Robb had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, even as he feared the way she was avoiding his gaze. It had long been her bedchamber as much as it was his, and the singularity of _the royal bedchamber_ could be lost on no one. He was eager to be with her alone, to tell her everything, to explain that it was nothing, that nothing before her mattered, that nothing would ever come after her, that he had dawned new life in the one they’d created together.

 

“My darling, I’ll take you-,” he offered.

 

“No!,” she said abruptly, then caught herself and smiled, “Forgive me, my love. Please stay and reminisce with this charming old friend of yours. Jon won’t mind missing a bit of the music, will you Jon?”

 

“I am yours to command, my Queen,” Jon said and stroked her cheek tenderly, as if to show Lady Flora the way of things.

 

“Lady Flora,” Ella addressed the woman, “Please do say you’ll not be leaving too soon. I’d like to learn everything there is to know about you, if you can only forgive my absence now. This baby, he tires me so. Just like his father.”

 

Even at eight and a half months pregnant, Ella bent into a curtsy more graceful than Flora’s could ever hope to be. When she rose, Robb could have sworn he saw the ghost of Cersei Lannister in her smile.

 

Jon took hold of her and escorted her out, and Robb noted that Grey Wind followed, Ghost had come to sit by Sansa now that Jon had left her.

 

All he wanted was to follow them, to push Jon out of the way so that he could feel the comforting weight of Ella, so that they could lay in bed and dream about the life their child would have. The servants would have lit the fires and Ella would sit back against the pillows while Robb rubbed her aching feet, promising her that they were just as delicate as they’d always been.

 

But she had publicly told him not to, so Robb stayed there with their subjects while she went to do the great business of keeping his heir safe.

 

It was the first night that he felt more like a King and his Queen, rather than a man and his wife.


	20. Chapter 19

“I know what that looked like, Ella… but don’t -,” Jon said as he escorted her back to her chambers.

 

“I’m just tired is all, Jon,” she lied.

 

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t lie to me. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to tell me how you feel or let me make it better or let me tell you how much she doesn’t matter and how you are his everything and his always, but don’t lie to me. We don’t do that.”

 

She looked at him warily, feeling slightly chagrined. He was right. They didn’t do that. Not with one another. There had always been a deep respect between them that demanded honesty, and even in her most uncertain moments, in his darkest moments of self-doubt, they had never lied to one another.

 

“She’s beautiful,” she stated finally. It was the truth, the deep painful truth. “And high born. And she was there…”

 

“Before,” Jon finished, because he knew. Such was the state of society that she would never, could never have a ‘before’, but Robb could. There was a part of him, a place that she could never reside, when he in turn had infiltrated her very being. “She is beautiful. Only a blind man would deny it. And high born. But Ella, you’re a princess, and a queen. And you are of such singular beauty that it is wasteful to even describe it. The only thing that Flora Humfort has on you is that Robb stormed her family’s castle before he got to yours. You are his all, his everything, his each thought and every breath. He is your husband and your king and your slave and your pilgrim.”

 

There were tears in her eyes as she stood there in the truth of what he said. She knew he was right. Everything Robb had done since the moment they’d been reunited on that bloody day had shouted his devotion to her.

 

“And what of you, dear brother?,” she asked, desperate to change the subject. “What of your chosen deity?”

 

He looked at her solemnly. This brave Northern soldier who in that moment looked so vulnerable. She took hold of his hand, pressing it steadily, assuring him silently that he could bare his truth to her.

 

“You, dearest Ella, are a Princess who had the good sense to fall in love with a King. It does not end quite so well for Princesses who choose less wisely,” he lamented.

 

Her heart tore in two from the pain she heard there, and from the words of his confession. She took a step forward, taking his face in her hands.

 

“Know this. There is no Princess who could choose as wisely as Sansa has done. Has she ever told you what her father promised?,” she inquired.

 

“Her father was not light with his promises,” he stated. _Promise me_ , Ella heard in the back of her mind as though whispered in a half-remembered dream.

 

“No, just like his sons. He promised her that when she was old enough, he would make her a match with someone worthy of her. With someone brave, gentle and strong. Who do you think he thought of when he made that promise? Perhaps he did not see your face, but he saw your heart, your kindness, your grace, he saw the way you carry people. You carry me, Jon. You carry, Robb. You carry us all, even if you don’t know it. No Princess has ever chosen quite so well as Sansa, remember it. For me,” she urged.

 

“Ah, the trump card…,” Jon said, the twinkle that was always present in his grey eyes when he looked at her finally returning, “Anything for you, Ella, always.”

 

“Then let me make one more request. Make her your past, and your present, and your future. Do not delay your happiness or hers. Let us deal with whatever comes, for anything goes both ways.”

 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and opened the door so that Grey Wind could enter the chambers. She gave him one last look and then allowed him to close the door behind her.

 

Alone in their chambers, Ella’s infamous bravado finally abandoned her.

 

Children from Last Hearth to Sunspear were now being raised on stories of the beautiful Winter Queen with sunlight in her hair, who had raised a dagger against ten men and bewitched an entire kingdom within the span of a fortnight. Daughters were challenging sons in a way they had never done and husbands were more beholden to their wives amidst the stories of the way the Wolf King bowed before his lady love.

 

She was a legend, just as a certain Northern Lord had assured her only a year before, but she was a woman too, a young one at that, and in that moment her heart was breaking.

 

***

 

“Oh come, _Your Grace_ , just one dance,” Lady Flora said.

 

_Oh of course, now she calls me Your Grace._

 

“What in Seven Hells were you thinking?,” Robb questioned her. He had known her to be reckless, their dalliance was proof of that, but never stupid, and never cruel. But her exhibition in front of Ella was both.

 

“You used to tell me not to call you Your Grace…,” she said innocently, though mischief sparked in her violet eyes. It was a look he knew well. It used to cause him to harden just at the sight of it, could drag him away from his council, could pull him across the room. But now all he felt was annoyance.

 

“I used to do a lot of things. All are irrelevant now,” he said coldly.

 

Just like that the mischief died in her eyes as tears sprouted, “You mean I am irrelevant now. Now that you have the lioness you always wanted. The Princess you were born to have.”

 

Robb ran his fingers through his curls. Dishonesty did not come easily to him, even when it was well intentioned. He would not lie to her now, for it was a further cruelty, he would give her no false hope, no illusion of what might be. He was not Ella’s father. There would be no court favorite to eclipse the Queen. No Lady-in-waiting that came to her mistress’ chambers smelling of her husband.

 

“You are not irrelevant. I will always remember our time together fondly but… Queen Myrcella is my life now…,” he confessed. “There will never be another.”

 

“Good Queen Ella,” Flora mused. It was what the commonfolk had taken to calling his wife. There had never been a Queen more beloved by her people, more revered, more honoured. Bran had told it true, it had taken quite a woman to supplant his sister as the first lady of the kingdom, and while Sansa inspired love and loyalty everywhere she went, she had relinquished that title gracefully to her dearest friend. In truth, the two could be twin monarchs, so beloved were they, and tales of their friendship had swept through even the most remote areas of the North. Like Jon and he had once been Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Florian the Fool, little girls now play-acted as the Lioness and the She-Wolf. “There is something mournful about that level of perfection.”

 

He didn’t like the way she said it. As though Ella were merely a figurehead, an ideal rather than a woman. He knew better. He knew for all her piety, all her strength, her grace, she was a woman. She was made of flesh and blood. She had fears and hopes and love, so much love within her. She had love for her family and his, for their people, for him, and most of all for the little life within her.

 

“Pity her if you must, but while you are in our kingdom you will grant her every respect,” he warned.

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with all the formality she had lacked the first time, bowing into a deep curtsey. He did not miss the way her eyes flicked up to his when she was so low that her rear nearly touched the floor. It used to drive him wild when she did so, but now it made his jaw clench. She was not listening to him. She would not claim to defeat.

 

It would not be resolved this evening, and so he nodded his head at her. He surveyed the room, signalling Sam forward to rally Shireen and Rickon to bed. He made his leave then, stalking through the castle, taking the stairs two at a time.

 

He came quietly into their rooms, not wanting to wake her on the off-chance that she had truly left due to fatigue. The Maester had warned how important sleep was in these last weeks, and Robb had taken to tip-toeing until Ella had caught him one day and laughed for the better part of an hour. He found her awake though, as he knew he would, seated by the fire. Grey Wind’s head was in her lap, her hand stroking him absently as she stared unseeing into the flames.

 

“My love,” he started. He did not mince words. He would give it all away up front. “My only ever love,” he said, his feet carrying him to her and kneeling down beside Grey Wind.

 

“She is a beauty, your Lady Flora,” she said, and he recalled another night a lifetime ago when she had said something similar about another woman that couldn’t hold a candle to her.

 

“Perhaps, but she is not mine,” he said, just as he had those months before.

 

Her gaze turned to him, and for a brief flash he saw her mother, anger turning her beautiful features into an icy mask.

 

“But she was,” she lamented, her voice shaky, “Do not deny it.”

 

“I don’t deny it,” he said, shaking his head. “But it was -“

 

“Before,” she said stoicly, as though in a trance.

 

“Aye my love, _before_ , before you. I was at war, without my family, and she was there she-,” he started but she interrupted him.

 

“You are a King, husband, you need not explain yourself to me,” she said.

 

“Do _not_ play those games with me!,” he growled. He stood up now. He would not be treated as some philanderer. “We are not one of those husbands and wives. I belong to you. Every action is you, every thought, every hope, every fear. They are all you. I will not _apologize_ for having a life of my own before I knew you, for I have not one now!”

 

“Well your former life is in my hall, drinking my wine, bewitching my people! I am confronted with your freedom and your desires and I will swallow my pride out there, I will greet her with kindness and I not let our people know that it makes the bile rise in my throat, but I will not swallow it in _here_ ,” she raged back. He secretly adored her when she was angry, the emotion made her eyes bright and her skin flushed and she was so vibrant and alive that it was mesmerising.

 

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“I want her gone,” she said, and to her credit it sounded as though it pained her to do so.

 

“You would have her banished? Do you not realize that it gives her more power than she is worth? She is _nothing_ to me, she should be nothing to you,” he said.

 

She looks at him pityingly, “She may be nothing now, but she was not always, and she does not seem as though she will be content to be nothing forever.”

 

“If you demand it, I will remove her from court tomorrow,” he said, and he could not hide the hesitation from his voice. He would do it, but he could not pretend to feel good about it. For all her faults, Lady Flora had not travelled hundreds of miles in Winter on a whim.

 

The way her eyes appraised him told him he had chosen his words wrong. She mistook the reason behind his hesitation and there would be nothing he could say now that would convince her that he did not desire the Lady Flora’s company.

 

“I am your Queen,” she said elegantly, “It is not my place to make demands.”

 

To his immense anger she curtseyed then, graciously, just as she had in the hall. It was Grey Wind whose head popped up first and then she let out a surprised cry that he felt deep in his knees.

 

“My love! My love?,” he asked, crossing to her, all anger forgotten, replaced by a bone-chilling fear.

 

“It’s too soon,” she said, holding her belly as though it would stop whatever was happening within it. “Too soon. Grey Wind get Jon.”

 

“My love, it’s going to be alright, it’s all going to be alright. We will get the Maester and all will be well. We don’t need Jon, I’ll be right by your side,” he promised, guiding her to the bed.

 

It was no use, because by the time he’d gotten her there, Grey Wind had already returned with Jon.

 

“Ella, oh sweetling it’s going to be alright, we are going to get the Measter and all will be well…,” he promised and to his hurt Ella nodded when he said it in a way she had not when he had said the same words only moments before.

 

“I can’t Jon, I can’t lose him…,” she said with a shake of her head.

 

“Shh shh shhh little one,” Jon cooed in a voice Robb had only ever heard him use with Shireen. “I’ll go get the Maester.”

 

“No!,” Ella said, gripping Jon with a fierceness that surprised them all. “You cannot leave my boy…”

 

She said it like a prophecy, as though she were possessed by a spirit, and it was that which finally convinced him to go himself to fetch the Maester. He dragged his feet away from them, away from the girl he loved and the man he called brother.

 

He started to run when he heard her scream into the night.


	21. Chapter 20

It was hot in the darkened room when she woke. She had never been hot in Winterfell before and her skin was damp to the touch.

 

Her eyes were blurry and there was a smell surrounding her - _peppermint_ and she struggled to sit up.

 

“Easy, easy, Ella,” Jon’s voice cut in, and just like that she felt strong hands supporting her, easing her back against the pillows.

 

“Jon? You sound so far away,” she said, but her tongue felt heavy.

 

“It is just the milk of the poppy, you’ll feel better soon,” he said comfortingly, but there was a strain in his voice.

 

“Milk of the - why? What happened?,” she asked. It all felt so far away. She remembered the hall and the music and then… _where is Robb?_

 

“You went into labor,” Jon said gently, and he pressed something cool to her forehead. She leaned against it and felt his calloused hand on the back of her neck supporting her as he dragged the cloth down one cheek and then the other.

 

“But its too soon - its…,” she started and then she remembered. She took hold of his wrist. “Jon…Jon where is my baby?”

 

“Ella you… you’re so young,” he said, and she felt the mattress sink as he sat upon it.

 

“Jon…,” she said, as though she might push it away. Him and the reality that was coming for her. “ _J-on_ ,” she cried.

 

“You’ll see Ella, you’ll… you’ll have other children, you’ll have a whole brood,” he said, “Many mothers lose their first child and go on to have happy and healthy babes thereafter.”

 

“I… lost my… I… my…,” she said. Images of a russet haired little boy flitted through her mind, the sound of a little girl’s laughter.

 

“You’ll see Ella, you have many years to become a mother,” he said. “So many.”

 

“I don’t want them,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t want the years. Why didn’t the gods take me? Why did they take my baby?”

 

The sobs hit her body violently. She had never known pain such as this. He pulled her to him, cradling her as she howled against his chest.

 

“You’ll see, you’ll see,” he said, over and over though she could hear his voice breaking. “You and Robb will have many babes yet.”

 

 _Robb, Robb, where are you?_ she thought but didn’t ask. It was coming back to her now. The feast, the woman, the fight. Robb was not by her side because she had willed it so.

 

_In the space of an evening I’ve lost a baby and a husband._

 

“Jon don’t leave me,” she cried, “I can’t bear it.”

 

“You’ll never have to,” he said, “You’ll never have to. Get some rest, Ella. You’ll need it. I won’t leave your side until you order me to do so. I promise, little one. Sleep.”

 

She lay back against the pillows as he eased himself into the chair next to her bed. At some point in the evening someone had changed her gown and the bedding because there was no sign of the horrors that had occurred. Grey Wind and Ghost curled up at her feet and she lay at her side, looking at Jon. He offered her his hand and she held onto, tucking it against her chest as one might a toy bear.

 

When she dreamed, she dreamed of a wolf cub all alone in the forest, so little he did not yet know how to howl, which was just as well as none were there to hear him.

 

***

 

He sat in Sansa’s solar. Sat, and paced. He wept, raged against the gods, against himself.

 

It was a son. The son Ella had envisioned. So small and frail and still-born. He would be taken to the crypts where he could rest with his grandfather forevermore.

 

 _I should be there with her_ , he thought.

 

“You will be,” Sansa said.

 

He hadn’t realised that he’d spoken out loud. He looked up at her.

 

“Soon, you will be soon,” she said comfortingly. She had been with him for hours. Had bandaged his bloody fist when he’d hit the wall, so eager to feel pain of a different kind.

 

“You didn’t see her,” he said, shaking his head. He had never seen sorrow like that. It had ravaged its way through her body, turning her green eyes nearly black. She had banished him from the room long before, but come back in when he heard her wailing.

 

 _Leave me - leave me - leave me_ , she’d cried over and over.

 

“No, but I know her,” Sansa said. “You’ll see. In a few days time -“

 

“A few days?,” he cried. It had only been hours away from her and it felt like a lifetime. He was not equipped at being alone, not when he knew what it was like to be with her. To bask in the warm sunshine of her laughter, to wrap himself up in her pragmatic logic, to make his home in her good heart.

 

“She…,” Sansa started. “Ella was put on this earth to be a mother. Taking care of people is what she does. She did it with me, and Shireen. She… she will need some time to…process what has happened. Alone.”

 

“But she is not alone!,” he raged. _Jon don’t leave me_ , she had whimpered. His blood had curdled upon hearing it. Why could she not beg it of him?

 

“Robb,” Sansa said calmly. “It’s Jon.”

 

“Aye and she held onto him like she was shipwrecked and he was a raft!,” he argued.

 

“Aye as I would hold onto you!,” she argued back. “Who do you think I would want by my side if I were her? My _husband_ who I feared I disappointed or my _brother_ who would always protect me?”

 

“You…you think she’s _afraid_ of me?,” he sputtered.

 

Sansa breathed deeply, as though trying to figure out how to explain something to a child.

 

“I think it is easier with Jon, simpler. She can feel her grief, only her grief - she does not have to share it, she does not have to fear that he _blames_ her for it.”

 

“I don’t blame her,” Robb said. The thought had never crossed his mind. So many mothers lost their first babe - some like his Aunt Lyanna never survived childbirth at all. “I could never blame her.”

 

“She cannot be so kind with herself,” Sansa said.

 

Robb didn’t question her. Sansa had more emotional understanding in her pinky finger than he did in his whole body, and she was linked to Ella in a way that he would never quite understand. Ella too could look at Sansa speaking pleasantly with a lord across the room and would know that she was upset about something.

 

“I…,” he started, but there was nothing left to say. His son was dead, his wife was alone in her grief, blaming herself for something she could not control, and he - he couldn’t stand here for another moment. “I’ve got to go.”

 

“Robb!,” Sansa called but it was too late, he was already gone.

 

He walked through the royal wing of the castle, down the stairs. He might go to the godswood, to rail against them in their home as he had done in his, or perhaps to the stables. A ride might do him some good.

 

He was surprised to see people up and about, even more so to see that the sky was a pale grey. A new day was upon them, and all was at it had been, though nothing was the same at all.

 

He could not bear to look at people and so he trudged through the snow to the godswood. Thinking that if perhaps he could not rail against them, he would at least pray for Ella’s recovery, and the patience it would take to give her the space she would need.

 

He was surprised to find someone kneeling at the heart tree. He could banish them in a moment, he was king after all, but he was not that sort of king so he turned to leave. He stepped on a branch though and when it snapped under his foot the person turned around at the sound.

 

“Your Grace!,” Lady Flora exclaimed. “I beg your pardon I - was - _I am so sorry._ ”

 

“Y-you know?,” he asked her. He should not be surprised, nothing stayed a secret for long in the castle and he would not think it impossible that they had heard Ella’s wails all the way at Last Hearth.

 

“I…,” she said standing up, “I feel so… _wretched_ …to have come here and…played such a silly game with her and now - oh that poor woman.”

 

“Don’t…don’t be silly,” he said, shaking his head.

 

He was lying, he knew better. He knew that even if what Sansa had said about Ella’s grief was true, it was not the whole truth. She felt betrayed by him, by his unwillingness to banish Lady Flora from court. _Why could I not just have said yes? She is a kind woman, she would have taken pity on her, she would not have banished her on her own in winter - she would not have left her to fate. Why did I fight her on it?_

 

“I - I know it is rather silly for me to be thinking about myself at all when you - _oh Robb_ ,” she said and he was surprised to see tears fill her eyes. “I’m so sorry. You would have been such a good father.”

 

“I…,” _I still will. There’s still time. Ella’s young, so young. We have years ahead of us. We’ll have a whole brood. We’ll dream longingly of the years when it was just us. When we were newlyweds, innocents, when we did not lie awake every night worrying for our children._ He wanted to say it all. He wanted to _believe_ it all, and maybe in the deepest parts of him he did. But here and now, all he felt was loss, and pain.

 

She stepped closer to him now and took her hand in his. She was warm to the touch, though she’d been out here longer than him. _She was always warm._

 

“There’s no one around Robb,” she said gently. “You don’t have to be strong here. You can let it out. You don’t have to be strong for me.”

 

 _I do not have to share my grief here_ , he thought absently.

 

He should have cried out, howled, cursed the gods. He wanted to. Oh how he wanted to.

 

But he was weak and foolish and so lonely in his grief that it ripped him of his senses.

 

 _Her lips are warm too_ , he thought as he leaned into kiss Lady Flora. If she was surprised by the turn of events, she did not show it, and opened herself to him like she had so many times before.

 

 _You’re a coward_ , he screamed at himself. But it was so faint, like a lone wolf pup howling all alone in the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.


	22. Chapter 21

It was strange to be in the fresh air. She wasn’t sure how many days she had spent in confinement, but it was enough that she could not look straight ahead without shielding her eyes from the sun, and that the cold breeze felt strong enough to carry her.

 

She walked by Sansa’s side, her arm tucked into Sansa’s cloak, her hand holding hers.

 

“You’ll see, Ella,” Sansa said softly, “The Gods will seek penance from you. I know it, sister.”

 

They had gotten to the Weirwood tree. The same tree where Jon had held her as he prepared for battle. The same tree where she knelt for hours every day that he and Robb were gone. The same tree where Robb had asked her to be his, and made it so.

 

She nodded to Sansa and felt her release her hands, and she stepped forward alone and knelt in front of the ancient trunk.

 

_What have I done? Have I not been your true and loyal servant? Have I not prayed for your king and your people? Have I not called your daughter ‘sister’ and sought ways of saving your masses? Am I to forever suffer for my name, my blood? Can you not see that I would drain every drop if you would give me my son back? I was going to name him Eddard. Did you not want another Ned Stark in Winterfell? Are you so cruel that you would steal him just as you abandoned his grandfather?_

 

She wasn’t sure when the tears started, but she was so used to them by now that it didn’t much matter.

 

She wished Robb were here, but he had not tried to seek her company since the night their son was taken away. She couldn’t blame him, she had banished him from her side and now the task fell upon her to make amends.

 

_How can he forgive me? Please, make him forgive me. You owe me, you owe me this, please return my husband to me. Please, we will protect your people in your name, we will create a dynasty if you only let us, please, please, I cannot survive in this world without him._

 

She rose and turned to Sansa, who was waiting patiently, Ghost at her side. She knew the pair of them would stand there all day while she pleaded with the divine.

 

“Robb,” she said simply, and Sansa gave her an encouraging smile and nodded, holding out her hand.

 

As they made their way back to the castle she leaned her head against Sansa’s shoulder. She wasn’t sure how many times in the years of friendship they had drawn strength from one another, but she felt it now flowing through her veins.

 

The courtyard was a flurry of activity as it always was, but when they entered it was as though time had stopped. She remembered being in the Red Keep when the soldiers had all knelt for Sansa, but it was she they looked at now. Men removed their caps and drew them to their chests, and all at once the people amassed began to kneel. She turned to them, these strong Northerners, who were so loyal when it mattered most.

 

“We can go,” Sansa whispered at her side, “They’ll understand.”

 

 _Let the people see you_ , her father had always said. _Don’t listen to your mother, the people want to love you. Let them._

 

She shook her head at Sansa and stepped forward on her own, walking amongst them.

 

 _My Queen_ most whispered as she went past, and she felt their devotion wrap around her like armor with each mention of loyalty.

 

She nodded at this one and that, pausing to thank a woman who had knit her would be child wool socks, commending one of the stone masons on the statue he’d created for her little son.

 

_These are my people, I am not just a girl I am their Queen and I will be strong for them._

 

They pressed kisses to her hand and a little boy gave her a nervous look when he saw her, but she only swiped his nose with her finger, bringing a smile to his cherubic face.

She got to the end, and there was one, dressed far more richly than the rest, with her head bent, the hood of her cloak hiding her beautiful features.

 

“Lady Flora,” she said quietly, but even still her voice sounded hoarse with emotion and lack of use.

 

She removed her hood and looked up at her. _She really is a beauty_. _She can not be blamed for that._

 

“Rise, Lady Flora, please,” she said and the woman rose gracefully. “You’ve come a long way.”

 

“Yes, my Queen,” Flora nodded.

 

“In ill weather,” Ella added and Flora nodded, the snows swirling all around them. Ella’s hand shook as she held it out to her, but she did nevertheless and said, “Will you join me for tea and tell me why?”

 

They turned to leave and she turned to back to her people. They were still on their knees and she knew they would not rise until she disappeared into the castle. _You gave me the strength to show her kindness,_ she wanted to tell them, _Every one of you._

 

But all she said was, “Thank you, friends. You have reminded me what it is to be a Queen, and I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of the devotion you have shown me this day. _The North Remembers._ ”

 

 _“The North Remembers,”_ they all chorused and the goosebumps on her arms had nothing to do from the cold.

 

***

 

He watched them from the window. He was in a small council meeting and Bran had told him Ella was outside. She hadn’t been outside since it happened, and he rushed to the window, desperate for a glimpse of her.

 

His throat felt thick as he watched their people drop to their knees before her. _My brave girl,_ he thought as she walked by them, nodding at each of them, stopping before this one and that.

 

_She is the Queen they deserve, if only I could be the husband that she did._

 

He had been wracked with guilt ever since that day in the Godswood, ignoring Flora, ignoring even Ella. All he wanted was to fall before Ella and apologize, but how could he bring this fresh betrayal to her when she was so deep in grief?

 

He watched her stop in front of a cloaked figure and when the woman rose, to his horror he saw that it was Lady Flora. He watched them share words and then Ella turned back and spoke to the people, before she took Lady Flora inside.

 

Robb was so quick to follow them that he did not see the way the people stayed kneeling until long after Ella disappeared.

 

He raced through the castle. He could not let Ella here this from Flora. She would never forgive him if he was not the one to tell her. She did not deserve to be told by the woman who had taken her place, if only for a moment, no Queen, no woman should have to suffer such humiliation as that.

 

He was not sure exactly where they would go but he wove in and out of different rooms until he saw a closed door at the end of the hallway, which belonged to the small library. He went and opened the door slowly, not wishing to disturb someone else if he were wrong.

 

He saw Lady Flora and Ella, both standing by the fire, crying. _What have I done?_

 

“Ella, oh my love, I’m-,” he started, ready to fall on his knees before her.

 

“Lady Flora will be staying as our honored guest as long as she wishes,” Ella interrupted him. She chanced one more look at him, barely registering his confused face before turning back to Flora and saying, more softly, “As long as you wish.”

 

“Thank you, my Queen,” Flora said and for the first time it sounded genuine. She curtseyed low, as she should have done the first time, and rose when Ella nodded at her, gripping her hands gently before releasing her.

 

Flora walked towards him, her eyes wide. _Did you tell her?_ he tried to ask, _No,_ hers told him. She curtseyed to him, more shallowly than she had just curtseyed to Ella, and left them there.

 

“Ella,” he said, as his wife dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief. He recognised it, it belonged to Sam, with its huntsman surrounded by a floral wreath.

 

“It’s good,” she assured him, “To cry for someone else for a change.”

 

“Ella, my love I -,” he started, but when she looked at him he stopped. _Do I tell her now? Now when she is out of bed? When she has just granted Lady Flora leave to stay as long as she wishes? Will I make an oathbreaker out of the most noble woman I’ve ever known?_

 

“Can you forgive me?,” she asked him suddenly.

 

“Forgive you?,” he asked incredulously. What could this perfect woman before him have to apologise for?

 

“I know it will be difficult,” she said, crossing to him, “The way I acted… I was… I was horrible I -,” she broke off starting to cry, shaking her head as though trying to banish the thoughts of the past few days.

  
“No, no my love,” he said gathering her in his arms. _Home, home you’re home now, with me, oh my darling girl._ “It is I who must beg yours,” he said, which was true but only part of it, “I am so sorry my darling, my only ever love I am so sorry.”

 

The sob wracked her body and he held her, rubbing her back, torn between feeling like a liar and feeling so grateful to have her in his arms once again.

 

“He was our boy,” she said, burrowing her face into his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck, “Our prince, _I lost our golden prince_.”

 

“You didn’t lose him, Ella,” he promised her, taking her face in his hands and making her look at him, “You didn’t lose him, the Gods saw fit to take him from us, but no fault lies with you. You loved him from the first moment and you love him still just as I do, oh my darling girl you have nothing to apologise for.”

 

“We’ll have others?,” she asked, hope in her green eyes. “We’ll be parents yet?”

 

“A whole brood, I promise, you’ll see, we’ll have Princes and Princesses for the Kingdom but they’ll be our sons and daughters, they’ll look just like you if they’re lucky and they will never know a day without love, I swear it by the old gods and the new,” he said and pressed a kiss to her. She kissed him back eagerly and they both breathed easier when their lips met.

 

“Never let me banish you again,” she said when they broke apart, shaking her head before leaning her cheek against his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist. He wrapped an arm around her back and the other stroked her silky golden hair. “I can’t bear it without you, any of it.”

 

“I promise, Ella, I’ll never let you banish me again,” he vowed, knowing that someday soon he would need to remind her of that demand. “You’re mine as I am yours.”

 

“ _You’re mine as I’m yours_ ,” she repeated.

 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and held her tighter. He wasn’t entirely sure how long they stood in there, but he knew it wasn’t long enough for him.

 

He held her and kissed her and promised her his devotion, and it was all true, but he still knew in his heart that he was a liar.

 

***

 

The castle looked much the same as the last time she’d been there. Men and women milled about, from one task to another. Boys practiced in the tiltyard and she knew that inside, little girls who’d rather be out practicing with the boys would be inside learning how to sew from a Septa.

 

She had heard the Starks, the elder children, had returned and that once again Winterfell was the safest place in the North, and perhaps the country. She had heard that the Young Wolf had married the Little Lion and that the Little Dove hadn’t married anyone at all, despite the many offers for her hand. She had heard that the King had sent scouts to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms looking for the sister who had not yet been returned, the only Stark child still unaccounted for, and she had heard that when people questioned whether it still made sense to look for a little girl that no one had seen in four years, the King’s half-brother growled and snarled like the wolf that sat by his side.

 

She had traveled great and wide since she had last seen this castle, and she knew that she had changed more than it had, but that it held ghosts within it, just like those who resided in her.

 

The closer she got the surer she was that the castle would stand up on its legs and walk away, and that she’d be doomed to follow it forever, with it just out of reach. It was astounding to her that it stayed in one place, until she was right before it. She had learned to be surprised when things worked out the way you’d want them to.

 

There were two guards as she approached, dismounting from her horse.

 

“Where do you think _you’re_ going?,” one of them, the chubbier one asked.

 

“In there, I live there,” she told him imperiously, just as she had told another guard in another lifetime.

 

“Fuck off,” his companion said, chomping on something hard and tough.

 

“Tell the King his sister has come home,” she said, jutting her chin up at him. She had not tried to play the lady in quite some time, and found that she felt just as awkward doing so now as she had then.

 

“Princess Sansa’s already inside, and as I said before, _fuck off_ ,” he growled.

 

“Forde, Clyburn is everything alright?,” a voice asked. _Now she sounds imperious._

 

“Yes, my Queen, apologies my Queen,” Forde said bowing to her, of course now the picture of courtesy. “Just some hanger-on, nothing to trouble yourself with.”

 

“I’m not troubled,” she told him sweetly, though there was an edge to her voice that she remembered from their dancing lessons. She came around the men and just like that, she was twelve years old again, looking up gratefully at the gracious princess who was always so kind to her. Myrcella's eyes went wide, as though she’d seen a ghost, and she asked softly, “Arya?”

 


	23. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated this in ages. Struggling a little bit here. Hope its okay!

“Step aside for your King!,” Jon shouted as they pushed through the crowds of people.

 

A guard had come running into his small council meeting telling him that a rider had come and that the Queen bid for him urgently. Jon and he had run out, Sam and Grenn quick on their heels.

 

With winter come, riders were few and far between, and always brought heavy tidings when they came.

 

He saw Ella standing there with a small figure, tears running down her face.

 

_What news, my love? Surely we cannot deserve anymore tragedies._

 

Ella smiled when she saw him though, which in and of itself caused him to stop dead in his tracks after recent events and the figure turned at the sight of it.

 

It was a girl, dressed as a man. Smart, given that she had been traveling alone. She was small, even smaller than Ella and had a Northern look to her.

 

She had a Stark look.

 

“Arya?,” he asked incredulously.

 

Jon had already stepped forward though and said, “Little sister?”

 

“Tell the wolves I’ve come home,” she said, almost as though she had been practicing. As though she had been repeating it to herself night after night each of the five years they’d been apart.

 

Her voice was different now, more measured, deeper. She was small but no longer scrawny. Her grey eyes had ghosts within them now, just like Sansa’s blue and Ella’s green.

 

_Where have you been?_

 

“Arya,” Jon said and crossed the distance, repeating, “Arya.”

 

Robb had collided with Sansa when he saw her, falling to his knees before her and all but pulling her into his lap. Arya though, Arya had always been different.

 

Jon didn’t care and picked her up. She looked alarmed at first and then his hand found her hair and he mussed it and she held on tight, closing her eyes.

 

“I’ve come home,” she said, as though she didn’t quite believe it.

 

“You’re home,” Jon assured her, “You’re home at last.”

 

Robb stepped forward, not wanting to interrupt. She had always been closest with Jon, their dispositions melding the way his and Sansa’s did, and he did not want to rob them of this. Even still, he had gone to sleep every night since he first marched south promising himself that he would hold his baby sister once again.

 

“Arya?,” he asked softly.

 

Her eyes opened and as though she were no more than the girl of twelve she’d been when he last saw her, Jon handed her to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said when he felt her safe in the confines of his arms, “I’m so sorry. I never should have stopped looking.”

 

“You didn’t,” she said, and her voice was not as measured as it had been, “I ran from some scouts not last month.”

 

“Why did you run?,” he asked her, “They would have brought you to me. They would have brought you _home_.”

 

“There was no way to tell if they were true,” she said simply, as though it were obvious, “I had no way of knowing they would bring me here.”

 

_You have faced demons too, little one. Just like Sansa and Bran and Rickon. You all deserved a far better big brother than the one you got and from now on you will have him._

 

“Smart,” he said though, nodding, “That was smart.”

 

“Thank you… _Your Grace_ ,” she said and then pulled her head back and smiled at him. She looked more like her old self when she did and her voice took on a coo as she teased, “Or is it my King? Or perhaps the Young Wolf? Tell me, dear brother, which of your many titles is your favorite?”

 

“Dear brother sounds pretty good to me, little one.”

 

***

 

“Is it true?,” Sansa asked as she met her in the hall. “Ella is it true?”

 

“It’s true,” Ella nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, “She’s home, she’s safe. She’s in the Great Hall. Go to her, I will fetch the others.”

 

“Don’t -,” Sansa said, gripping her harshly. “Don’t leave me.”

 

“Sansa?,” she asked as calmly as she could, holding Sansa’s forearms, “It’s _Arya_. She is your sister, she -“

 

“Hates me,” Sansa said, shaking her head, tears forming in her eyes. “For…for what I did, she lost her wolf because of me, I… _I lied_ I should have told your Father the truth I… maybe then our Father…our _Mother_ … maybe all of this…”

 

“You were a child,” Ella said, taking her face in her hands, “Do you hear me, Sansa? You were a child and Joffrey was your _betrothed_. Tell me do you still blame her for Lady?”

 

“No of course not that was your -,” Sansa started.

 

“Aye, sweetling it was my Mother. And your Father was Joffrey. Do not let the sins of my family rob you of yours,” she urged, “Go to her. She will want to see you.”

 

“Will you come?,” Sansa asked, “Please.”

 

“Of course,” she nodded, guiding her to the Great Hall.

 

It looked expansive given how few people were in it. Ella was pleased to see that the children were already here, Jon had wheeled Bran in himself and Arya was squeezed between her little brothers, the wolves crowding in.

 

“Arya,” Sansa said quietly.

 

A hush fell over the Great Hall and Ella squeezed Sansa’s hand. Arya stood up and extracted herself from Bran and Rickon.

 

“You’re a Princess now,” Arya said in her new, deeper voice. “Just like you always wanted.”

 

“As are you,” Sansa returned, “Just like you _never_ wanted.”

 

“I did not think to ever see you again,” Arya said and Sansa clutched Ella’s hand, “But even still, I dreamed of what I would say to you if I did.”

 

Ella met Robb’s eye and he shook his head. He would protect these girls from everything, would go into each of the seven hells for either one, but he would not, it appeared, save them from one another.

 

“And what was that?,” Sansa asked, drawing herself up to her full height, looking every inch the princess.

 

Arya stepped forward, closer, stalking forward. _She looks like a cat_ , Ella realised, thinking of the lessons they’d had in the Red Keep, _Just like Syrio wanted._

 

“I’m sorry,” Arya said simply.

 

Sansa looked incredulously at her and then started to laugh. Arya started laughing too, and there were tears running down both of their faces.

 

“But I’m sorry,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

 

“As well you should be,” Arya teased.

 

It only made Sansa laugh harder and then they were embracing, holding onto each other as sisters should. As their parents would have wanted.

 

Ella stepped away, wanting to give them time to experience their happiness and their grief. They had lost so much that it could almost be painful when something was returned to them.

 

She looked at their brothers watching them. Rickon, no more than a boy with the heart of a warrior, Bran, who had lost more than any of them perhaps who had retained all of his goodness, Jon, who loved them both so fiercely and so differently, and Robb, who she knew would be silently vowing to keep them here safe, always.

 

She turned back and looked at the two girls still locked in their silent embrace. Even now it was clear that they were as different as the sun and the moon, but through them both flowed the blood of Winterfell.

 

This was the outcome that their Father had died to protect. This was the outcome that their Mother had released her Uncle to protect. This was the outcome that their brothers had fought a war to protect.

 

There were ghosts with them in the Great Hall, of that she was sure, but for once, it felt as though they too were smiling.


	24. Chapter 23

Myrcella entered her chambers to change for dinner and found her husband in the bath.

 

“You look frozen through, my love,” he told her, “Have you been to the Godswood again?”

 

“Only for a short while,” she said.

 

“My pious Queen,” he said with a small smile.

 

“I have learned not to doubt them,” she said with a small bow of her head.

 

“My love?,” he asked her.

 

“After…,” she said, and she did not need to expand more than that. It had created a dividing line within their lives, the time before she had lost their son and the time after it, “I could not understand why they would do such a thing. I had thought I had made up for some of the sins of my family, even though there were far too many for me to absolve on my own, and I couldn’t understand why they would do such a thing to you. I raged at them, asking them why we hadn’t earned their loyalty, and then they returned Arya to us. I still don’t know why… why they felt they had to take him, but I realised then that they never take without giving also, and I promised upon her return to Winterfell that I would never doubt them again.”

 

He rose from the bath and wrapped a sheet about his waist. He crossed to her and tilted her face up to him.

 

“The gods will grant us children, Ella,” he said and stroked her cheek with his thumb, “They would not make one such as you and deny her a child.”

 

“The gods need help,” she said, feeling the place between her thighs moisten. He was wet and chiseled and they had not coupled since before. They had been advised against it at first and then they simply hadn’t and she yearned for him now, both for the prospect of a babe and also for him. She brought her fingers to the sheet and unwrapped it, “Let us help them, husband.”

 

“Ella,” he growled and took her face more fully in his hands and kissed her hungrily on the mouth.

 

 _He has been waiting for me_ , she realised then. He had been so patient with her these past months, he had never initiated anything even though he kissed her tenderly and held her lovingly. She broke the kiss and turned around, pulling her hair to the side so that he could undo her laces. 

 

He undid them quickly, pushing her gown off her shoulders and letting it pool to the floor. He turned her back around and pulled her up to him, kissing her and carrying her towards their bed.

 

“Gods I’ve missed you,” he confessed as he bent to kiss her neck, his hands roaming all over her, “My darling girl.”

 

“Robb,” she cried, needing him now. “My only ever love,” she said, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 

It was not right for a husband or a king to be denied, she had reneged on her duties to him and though she knew he didn’t view it that way, she felt guilty all the same.

 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he promised kissing her neck.

 

He paused his movements then, his lips pressed against her neck. Her fingers went to his back and she found it rigid.

 

“My love?,” she asked, he had never stopped once they’d began.

 

He got off of her and and sat back on his knees. When she looked at him there were tears in his eyes and her stomach somersaulted. She sat up on her knees and wiped a tear that had fallen.

 

“There is something that I should have told you months ago,” he said, locking his jaw.

 

“Then tell me now,” she prompted though she was not sure how she had the strength to speak.

 

“Lady Flora -,” he started and she broke away from him, feeling as though he had scalded her.

 

“What of your Lady Flora?,” she asked.

 

She had befriended the girl months before after she’d told her why she’d come North. How her Uncle had tried to make her his wife so that he could inherit his brother’s castle, and how she had abandoned the castle rather than wed him.

 

Even still she had never forgotten what Lady Flora had been to Robb. She had never forgotten the way she’d laid claim to him in front of her family. Had never fully trusted her, even as they’d sat side by side listening to the players.

 

“I lay with her,” he said and his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a tomb.

 

“Before you met me,” she prompted. She would not make this easier for him.

 

“And once here in Winterfell,” he said, tears running down his face.

 

“I denied you your husbandly rights, Your Grace,” she said, getting off of the bed. She grabbed her robe and pulled it on, not wanting to be naked with him when he had been naked with another. Another beauty whom he had once loved. “It is only right that you would take a mistress.”

 

“I have not taken a mistress,” he said, getting off the bed, “I would never take a mistress. And it was not because you denied me it was -“

 

He stopped talking and her eyes flashed to his.

 

“It was when?,” she asked. His jaw clenched and she stumbled, tears falling freely from her eyes, “No. You… you didn’t. No. Tell me it isn’t true. Please, please, tell me it isn’t -“

 

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head.

 

“While I lay in _mourning_?,” she anguished.

 

It was impossible, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. How could it even be possible? How could he find it in himself to feel desire when his son was not yet laid to rest?

 

“I was mourning too,” he said and she scoffed. He looked at her with fire in his eyes, “I will _never_ forgive myself for what happened. I will _never_ stop trying to make it up to you - but do not - _do not_ \- balk at my pain. I died that day! I… I was lost and you would not see me and you had just lost our child -“

 

“You said you didn’t blame me,” she said softly.

 

“I don’t! That isn’t what I meant. Of course I don’t, my darling,” he said crossing to her. He tried to take her hands in his but she reeled away from him. “Please… please… I’ll do anything,” he said and fell to his knees before her.

 

“Leave me then,” she pleaded.

 

“No,” he said, wrapping his arms around her legs, “I promised you I wouldn’t.”

 

“You promised me a lot of things,” she said stoically.

 

“You told me to never let you banish me again,” he said, “You told me you couldn’t bear any of it without me,” he said standing up, “You told me you wouldn’t survive it.”

 

“What did I know?,” she asked him, pushing away from him, “When I asked you that I thought that you would never do anything to hurt me. I thought you _could_ never do anything to hurt me - but you already had - I just didn’t know it. I made that request to a stranger!”

 

“Don’t say that!,” he said, catching her to him, “You know me. You know me better than anyone. I have loved you since I was sixteen years old, you’re my Queen and my wife.”

 

“And yet you betrayed me,” she pointed out.

 

“She means nothing to me,” he promised her.

 

“That is a pity, Your Grace,” she said, “For this nothing has cost me everything.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short one to get back into this. I forgot how much I loved this story. Hope you enjoy, xx.


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